


Inevitable

by sunscreams



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Eventual Smut, M/M, Oops, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, copious Thunderbirds 2086 references, i forgot the legal drinking age in the US is 21 not 18, just weed tho so, kind of, you don't need to know anything about Thunderbirds 2086 tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-25 01:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunscreams/pseuds/sunscreams
Summary: There are countless things in life that are completely and wholly unpredictable, but there are a few things that are predictable. These things Lance likes to call inevitabilities; things like death, and gravity and the progression of time.And the thing about inevitabilities is, that they happen whether you want them to or not.For Lance, falling in love with Keith Kogane was inevitable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been working on this fic for almost two years now, so I have (almost) the entire fic completed. It started as a fic based off the short film ["Crush"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooD9m5vQu70&t=0s&list=PLulKK8B86BSugQfNMVVghKOKZtBmfaUKA&index=2) but then it turned into this monster with a mind of its own. As the fic grew, so did I, in both writing style and coolness and that is reflected in this fic. So, if you notice any major grammatical errors or stylistic inconsistencies, let me know and I'll really try me best to fix it. 
> 
> Also, I wrote this fic out of order, so that was fun to keep continuous :)))))))
> 
> Anyway, I'm really glad to finally be able to share this fic with everyone, I hope y'all enjoy :)
> 
> PS, I made a playlist for this [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLulKK8B86BSugQfNMVVghKOKZtBmfaUKA) but like it's just full of the things I reference, not actual good music.

There are countless things in life that are completely and wholly unpredictable, but there are a few things that are predictable. These things Lance likes to call inevitabilities; things like death, and gravity and the progression of time. 

And the funny thing about time, that you don’t really notice until you have a reason to, is that it keeps going. It keeps going on and on around you whether you want it to or not. The progression of time is an inevitability, despite how many people love to live in the past. 

Einstein said it best with his theory of relativity. Time is relative to your state of motion in the sense that if you were to go the same “speed” as time, you’d eventually “catch up” and it would seem to stop. So, if you live in the past, not moving forward at all, then, in a way, you're actually distancing yourself from the moment in time you want to live in, and the only way to truly “stop” the progression of time is to “catch up” to it and you’ve got to move to do that.

Like at the event horizon of a black hole, just before total spaghettification, time would seem to be completely still. If you were lucky, and you didn’t know that you were racing toward a black hole, getting stretched and squeezed apart until you were literally ripped into the particles that make up you, and you were living out the moment in time you would choose to live in forever, then the event horizon would be the perfect place. 

When you think about it like that, it almost sounds romantic; sort of like the way that Romeo and Juliet is romantic. 

Now, here’s the thing: Lance isn’t being existential because he’s edgy, or because he has an actual reason; he’s being existential because he fancies himself an actual intellectual, and also might’ve just smoked a gram of some quality weed in under half an hour and at this point he can’t even feel his fingers anymore. Although now that he thinks about it, that might actually just be the cold air outside the window he’s dangling his hand out of. 

Which reminds him of that time he dangled his hand off the edge of his bed back in high school, and his cat, who was hiding under the bed at the time, attacked his poor dangling, _vulnerable_ fingers because she's a little shit, and he honest-to-God thought that Satan himself was coming for him. At the memory, Lance snaps his hand inside. Not today Satan.

A noise, or rather the lack thereof, from behind Lance causes him to glance over his shoulder, his eyes landing on Pidge, who is currently fiddling with Lance’s phone, turning off the bluetooth so that she can connect to the small speaker, muttering her distaste about Lance’s “softcore hipster shit” that was playing before. 

“Look Lance, I realize you think this is good chill music to play while we chill out, and I can admit to myself that it’s usually not bad, but dude,” Pidge does the ‘boi’ hand gesture, “It’s killing me right now.”

"But is vaporwave any better?” Lance shoots back dryly. Pidge looks Lance straight in the eye and plays fucking Macintosh Plus, _420_.

“I refuse to turn my back on not only meme culture, but also weed culture.”

“Weed culture?” Lance mumbles in disbelief, mostly to himself, before he realizes it’s too much effort, “Pidge, that's not a thing.”

Pidge sends Lance a stiff look, "Weed culture is totally a thing. Shitty trap music, huge bong rips, weed leaves on literally everything. Weed culture is totally a thing."

"Whatever," Lance rolls his eyes and Pidge just shrugs. She slumps down into her desk chair, rolling it to face her desk as she hums along to the song. Lance is ashamed for her.

“You know that this is just _It’s Your Move_ by Diana Ross slowed down right?” He shoots over at her as she continues to click around on her computer.

“Whatever man,” Pidge shrugs noncommittally, “The internet is completely plagued with intellectual property piracy, and if we’re going to be smoking up at a liberal arts college, we’d better at east do it to a genre of music that both critiques and embraces consumer-capitalism.”

“What the actual, literal fuck?” is all Lance can manage.

“I don't know man. I watched a video the other day on the music theory of vaporwave and it was a wild ride.”

“Sis,” Lance says after a beat of contemplative silence, because _what the fuck_ , “We don’t go to a liberal arts college.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mumbles as she takes a fucking sip of her canned Arizona Iced Tea. _What Alternate Universe bullshit is this?_

“I hate you,” Lance mumbles as he distantly feels a grumble from his stomach. He takes a lazy glance at Pidge, “Yo, Pidge, you want something from the vending machine?” 

“Is that even a question?” Pidge doesn’t even turn around.

Lance sighs, long suffering, “I assume you want those witch finger claw chips?”

“Bugles, Lance,” Lance can practically hear Pidge’s eye roll.

“You and I both know what I meant,” Lance grabs a handful of spare change off his bedside table, not bothering to put on shoes as he makes his way out of their shared dorm down to the end of the hall where a beautiful, glowing food chamber awaits.

Lance squints against the soft glow illuminating the inside of the vending machine as he scans the rows of snacks. He slots a couple coins into the machine, selecting Pidge’s witch finger corn chips, not bothering to bend down to pick them up until he’s made his selection as well.

Lance doesn’t realize he’s spaced out until someone taps him on the shoulder, sliding up next to him, saying, “Dude, you’ve been standing here for like 5 minutes. Grab your snacks and go; not a hard concept.”

Lance turn to face this rude, rude offender, and when he does, the breath is knocked right out of him in a truly horrific, unattractive snort of laughter because this fucking guy has a fucking mullet. He has a mullet in fucking 2018. And, oh my god, he’s wearing an honest-to-god cropped leather jacket. 

“Dude, where—or should I say when—did you come from?” Lance manages between laughs.

“Excuse me?” is all he says, crossing his arms across his chest like he doesn’t look like he just walked out of an 80’s anime. 

“Dude, bro, pal,” Lance leans a hand on his shoulder. The guy brushes Lance off immediately. Lance ignores this, “You look like fucking Dylan Beyda from _Thunderbirds 2086_ if he dressed exclusively in alternative fashions inspired by Micheal Jackson’s _Thriller_.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda narrows his eyes, leaning forward, his voice becoming perhaps a tad hostile.

“Okay, in hindsight, I can see how that could be taken as offensive, but like, dude, I genuinely mean no harm,” Lance backtracks, making placating gestures towards him.

Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda just sighs, closing his eyes for a moment before dropping his tense stance in favour of pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks up at Lance, completely exasperated. “Can you just make your snack choice please?”

“What? Oh, yeah, for sure.” Lance turns back to the vending machine. He still doesn’t know what he wants, so Lance bends down and grabs Pidge’s Bugles. 

“Wait a second, you already had a snack and you were just standing here staring at nothing? Were you having a stroke?” Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda says, completely exasperated. He’s flailing his arms around and for the first time Lance notices how slim his waist is compared to his shoulders and then all Lance can think is how much of a babe Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda is and suddenly Lance fucking hates him.

Lance must have spaced out again because Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda groans and says, “Are you currently having a stroke? Are you numb anywhere?”

“Nah man, I’m g-money,” Lance’s brain produces as a suitable answer.

Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda looks up at the ceiling, muttering a quiet, “Oh my god,” under his breath. He pushes past Lance to the vending machine, quickly buying a bag of Original Lay’s potato chips and a bag of Zesty Doritos before pushing past Lance again to make his way back down the hall, Lance assumes, in the direction of his dorm room.

“See ya, around Dylan Beyda!” Lance calls after him with a small wave. Lance never really does make a snack choice of his own and he ends up stealing Pidge’s Bugles until she kicks him out of their shared dorm room for 20 minutes.

And as Lance sits with his back against his own dorm room door, he realizes again for the second time that night, that there are things that are completely unpredictable, but then there are also things that are predictable; inevitabilities. Like death and, gravity and the progression of time. And being unable to stop thinking about the unexpected complete-babe-ness of Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda.

* * *

 Pidge, Hunk and Lance are playing PokemonGo about two weeks later—them and a few local soccer moms being the only people who really still play—when Lance sees it. They’re walking to a memorial park bench-turned-PokeStop to collect some Good Shit™ just passing a used video store, when he sees it. In the window of this ancient used video store, there’s a beautiful, slightly used VHS copy of _Thunderbirds 2086_. 

Now, okay, if we’re being completely honest, Lance doesn’t think he’ll ever see Alternative Fashion Dylan Beyda, the man, the myth, the legend, the _babe_ , again, but some weak, nostalgic, _petty_ part of him hopes that if he plays it in the dorm common area, someone Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda knows, or maybe even the legend himself, will see the resemblance and they’ll cross paths again. And while Lance’s sure he could probably find a torrent of _Thunderbirds 2086_ online for free, he needs to buy this, even if just for the meme of owning it. 

And just like that, Lance’s mind is made up, and then he’s saying, “Hold up a second, I need to get something from here,” to Pidge and Hunk, taking quick long strides up to the store. 

Pidge starts after Lance with a rushed, “Wait, what, Lance, we’ve got a very serious mission to complete,” but Lance’s already opening the door and ducking inside the video store, the soft chime of the alarm ringing as he walks through the door. 

The store is nothing special. It smells like used goods stores usually do: dusty and mothball-y with a hint of old weed. The walls are painted canary yellow with this awful slightly faded, bright turquoise horizontal panelling over top. Dozens of rows of used videos are mounted on the walls and proudly shelved in mismatched bookcases of varying sizes, lined up in cramped rows, all stuffed full of old VHS tapes, video game cartridges, DVD’s and even a few CD’s and cassette tapes. 

There’s no one other than Lance (soon followed by Pidge and Hunk) in the store besides a tall, lanky, but broad-shouldered man, sitting slouched behind the desk, facing the door. He perks up when he sees the trio, closing the ancient looking novel he was reading when they came in. Soft Vocaloid music plays.

“Hey, welcome folks,” the dude behind the counter says, straightening his ‘AREA 51’ embroidered baseball cap. “What can I help you guys find?”

“Oh, uh, I was actually wondering about that copy of _Thunderbirds 2086_ you’ve got in the window,” Lance says, popping a thumb over his shoulder as he carefully makes his way between the rickety stacks of used media.

“Oh my god, is this about Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda?” Pidge mumbles at the same time Area 51 says, 

“Oh yeah, just got that in about a week ago,” he shrugs and walks around the counter, “Gotta say, though, it’s pretty rare. I didn't expect someone so young to pick it up.”

“What can I say? I’m a nostalgic kinda guy,” Lance shrugs, going for suave and landing somewhere in awkward. 

“Totally understandable, my dude,” Lance’s main man, Area 51 says as he reaches his hand around into the front window display, pulling out _Thunderbirds 2086_.

“Wait, Lance,” Hunk very carefully maneuvers his way into the store, “Why are you buying an ancient anime VHS? Do you even own a VHS machine?”

“I don’t know, man,” Lance shrugs, accepting the VHS tape, lying through his teeth, “I’m feeling nostalgic. And I’m pretty sure I could find a machine somewhere.”

Hunk takes the tape, turning it to look at the back of the case, “Lance, this was copyrighted in 1984. You weren't even born until 1999.”

“Look, dude, this,” Lance steals the tape back, holding it up so that both Hunk and Pidge can see the cover, “is a hidden gem, okay?” Lance turns it back towards himself, “It came out in an era when space anime was the literal shit. And because it wasn’t he best, trust me, it’s not even that good, it totally flew under most people’s radar. That being said however, it’s space related, and has a wholly 80’s aesthetic about it that just screams Lance McLean." Lance pauses, "And okay, if I'm being honest, it might have a little to do with Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda.” 

Ignoring the pointed look Pidge throws at him, Lance turns back to Area 51 who has made his way back to behind the counter.

“Some real solid points there, my man,” Area 51 says as Lance hands him the VHS to put through. Area 51 fiddles with the ancient computer in front of him, punching in an elaborate series of numbers and letters before saying, “So, that’ll be $35.”

Lance hands him a couple of bills, and Area 51 shoves them into an equally ancient cash register, before handing Lance his VHS tape and a small stuffed cow. “With every purchase over $20, you get a free Kaltenecker Cow.”

“Awesome!” Lance accept the items, “Thanks, man!”

“Yeah, no worries, man,” Area 51 readjusts his hat, “Have a good day.”

“For sure!” Lance turns back to Pidge and Hunk, both of them having made their way to the door by now, waiting a little less than patiently for him. Lance carefully shoves the VHS and the stuffed cow into his backpack, before heading out, back onto the street, to play some PokemonGo. 

Lance doesn’t know where he’ll find a VHS machine, but he’s sure some second-hand store will have one, and if he can’t find one there, he’s sure someone has a VHS machine in the film department, just collecting dust that they’d be more than willing to part with for a few bucks. All Lance knows, is that he needs to watch this in the common room. He needs to see Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda again. 

No, Lance is going to see Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda again; it’s an inevitability decided, just now, by him.

* * *

It turns out that finding a VHS machine in working condition is a lot harder than expected, so Mission: Summon Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Through Shit 80’s Anime Alone (or Mission: SAFDBTS8AA for short) is going to have to take a back seat in favour of more important things. School things. Class ranking things.

Lance doesn’t mean to brag, but he’s always been a Pretty Smart Dude™. He’s not going to try to trick anyone into believing he was top of his class or even in the top 3, but he’s always been in the top ten, maybe even top five, and that’s pretty good; and he’s actually pretty happy about that.

Now, he’s not going to sugar-coat things: his marks have been slipping since he’s started college, but he counted on that. Lance knew things would be harder here and he’s seeing that reflected in his grades. Last semester was entirely less than stellar, but again, he’s not really that surprised. 

That being said, Lance didn’t count on being pushed out of the rankings completely. And by some rando kid named Keith Kogane—who never, ever participates in class discussion, except for that one time where he _interrupted_ Lance only to _correct_ him. Lance didn't even get a good look at this Keith Kogane’s face because there's like a million kids in all of his lectures, including that one. 

Lance only knows it was him because the professor said, “Good catch, Keith,” and there was only one Keith on the registry.

In Lance’s probably over-exaggerated rage, he went through all of his other classes to see if he could find him. It turns out that Keith Kogane is totally wiping the floor with Lance’s ass in his physics lecture and lab, all of his humanities courses and his Astronomy 104 lecture. Lance has no idea who Keith Kogane is, or what he looks like because all of these lectures are, like, ridiculously huge. And by huge, we’re talking, like, 500 kids in one lecture hall, all at the same time, huge. So this rando kid, just comes in, fuckin doesn't say shit in class, and fucking just beats Lance out of the rankings, like the total asshat he is. 

So, finding Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda is going to have to take a back-seat to totally destroying Keith Kogane. 

(Lance knows he’s being petty—he does. And Lance shouldn’t be this pissed off about some random kid who’s just doing good in school. But there’s this internship called the Pilot Project that’s offered for students in Astronomy 104 that only accepts the twenty highest ranking students in the course. The internship is run by a company called the Galaxy Garrison, which is basically just discount NASA, but some of the biggest names in space R&D have done this internship, and Lance’ll be damned if he doesn’t get this experience.)

(If Lance doesn't get his grades back up by the end of the semester, he’ll loose his chance at this internship which could seriously fuck with his future. It’s not that Lance hates Keith Kogane arbitrarily—okay he kind of does—it’s just that Keith Kogane’s an easy target for Lance’s anger at a set of circumstances that he only has partial control over. It also helps that Keith Kogane was kind of a dick to him one time.)

* * *

It’s late Friday night—or rather early Saturday morning—about a month after the fated _Thunderbirds 2086_ find, and through a method that may or may not have been a little more than dubious, Pidge found a working VHS machine. With it successfully hooked up and _Thunderbirds 2086_ queued and ready to go, Lance has managed to create the perfect viewing set-up, complete with an awesome blanket nest, vending machine snacks within reach and a water bottle filled with red Gatorade nestled into the blankets next to him. After a painfully stressful few weeks of almost non-stop studying Lance has decided to let loose and allow himself to put Mission: Summon Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Through Shit 80’s Anime Alone (Mission: SAFDBTS8AA) into action. 

Now, if we’re being completely honest, Lance is in no way expecting this plan to work. He’s fully expecting his Friday night and/or Saturday morning to be spent watching _Thunderbirds 2086_ by himself, but after all of the studying and extra work he’s been doing in the past month, Lance is surprisingly okay with this.

So, he buckles down, starting the first episode, both hating and loving the fact that he’s honestly watching an 80’s mecha space anime at 1:00am on VHS. A few people bustle through the common room, just coming home from whatever night-time activities college kids get up to, in a pretty steady stream, until about half way thorough the second episode, and then it really is just Lance and on-screen Dylan Beyda, waiting patiently for real-life, Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda to show his ridiculously handsome face.

Lance’s not sure if it’s luck, or chance, or fate, but just as he resigns himself to the fact that Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda probably won’t show up, the fucking legend himself stumbles into the common room. The third episode had just started playing and as the absolutely horrific, 80’s American anime graphics show a characterized version of the man standing in the doorway, Lance can’t help snorting a laugh of both joy and complete and total disbelief. His plan fucking worked.

“The really edgy one with a black mullet is Dylan Beyda,” Lance says as real-life, Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda stares at the shitty anime playing on TV.

“What?” he says, as if he’s just noticed Lance. 

“I said, the really edgy one with a black mullet is Dylan Beyda,” Lance nods to the TV and Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda squints in its direction for a few seconds before looking back at Lance, his brows furrowed and his arms folded across his chest. 

“What?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda stutters out a few unintelligible syllables, before snapping out, “Do I know you? Have we met?”

“Okay, someone’s a little confrontational,” Lance says mostly to himself as he rolls his eyes, “We met at the hallway vending machine, like, two months ago. I was stoned as shit, you were grumpy, I told you, you looked like Dylan Beyda from _Thunderbirds 2086_ if he only dressed exclusively in alternative fashions inspired by Micheal Jackson’s, _Thriller_. Vis-a-vis, Dylan Beyda from _Thunderbirds 2086_ ,” Lance pointedly gestures to the TV where anime Dylan Beyda is running, almost comically, across the screen.

“Wha—” Alt-Fashion Bylan Beyda cuts himself off, pauses, his eyes closed and one of his hands resting on his forehead, “ _What?_ ”

Lance just shrugs emphatically. 

Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda sighs harshly—frustrated—and turns his glare from Lance to the TV. He watches a few minutes of the episode before he says, “Oh, please,” with another incredibly emo sigh. Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda then breaks the staring contest he was having with the TV in favour of glaring at Lance, “He looks nothing like me,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda snaps before he plops down in a chair adjacent to the couch Lance’s currently taking up. 

Maybe for the first time ever in Lance’s life, he decides not to say anything, choosing instead to pop a handful of White Cheddar favoured popcorn into his mouth, a smile poorly concealed.

Not going to lie, Lance is utterly floored that this plan worked. Okay, he didn’t really envision Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda walking in on him watching _Thunderbirds 2086_ , obviously a little drunk, but Lance is in no way complaining. And, okay, sure Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda a little bit of a dick, but, fuck, not only did he walk in of his own accord, but he’s j-chilling with Lance. So maybe the reason Lance decided not to say anything had a little to do with the fact that his brain is seriously malfunctioning instead of him being a mature young adult. 

And maybe that same fact is the reason they manage to watch almost an entire episode in relative silence, only to be broken by Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda himself, slurring, “This is really shitty, why are you even watching this?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Lance shoots back without thinking.

Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda messily rolls his eyes, “I heard sounds from the hallway and got curious,” he pauses watching the TV for a few moments. In fact, he’s quiet for so long, that Lance assumes that’s all he’s going to get from him when Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda mumbles, “I figured watching shitty anime at three in the morning with a stranger is better than going to bed alone and drunk.”

“I don’t know man,” Lance shrugs half-heartedly, “If I wasn’t already so comfortable, I’d probably be in bed alone and drunk,” he rolls his head to look at Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda, “Well, minus the drunk part.”

“Whatever, your turn,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda doesn’t look at Lance.

“Um, what?” Lance does not follow.

“Why are you watching this shit anime?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda lazily gestures to the TV.

“Oh,” Lance turns his head back to the TV. Should he tell the truth or make something up? Lance needs more time for this decision, so Lance rolls his head back to look at Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda, and says, “Bear with me on this one.”

“I’m bearing with you,” he mumbles into the neck of his jacket which has ridden up over the bottom half of his face as he’s slumped farther into the chair. 

“Okay,” Lance mumbles. He didn’t stall hard enough. Lance still doesn’t know what to say. “So, I saw you in the hallway, right?”

“Yeah,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda mumbles half-heartedly, still not looking at Lance.

“And you, like, reminded me of this shitty anime,” Lance shrugs, “and, like, me and my friends—” 

“My friends and I,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda cuts Lance off.

“What the fuck,” Lance says before continuing, “ _Me and my friends_ , were playing PokemonGo and I saw this copy of _Thunderbirds 2086_ , and I knew I had to get it.”

“So you bought a shit anime series from the 80’s on VHS for some quality nostalgia?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda raises an eyebrow, “Why didn't you just Torrent it? Not even Torrent, I’m sure you could find the whole series on YouTube.”

“Yeah, okay, but what’s the fun in that?” Lance shoots, indignant.

“Saving money?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda’s statement comes out like a question.

“There’s no adventure in that,” Lance say haughtily.

“Adventure, adsmenture,” he lazily waves a hand in the air. They sit in silence for a few moments before Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda says, “Did you really buy this stupid show for the nostalgia? Because I’m only three-quarters of an episode in, and I’m already over it.”

Lance doesn’t know why he thinks it’s a good idea to say, “I’m watching this because I was hoping I’d see you again,” but he says it. Maybe it’s because of how tired Lance is, or maybe it’s because he’s hoping that Alt-Fasion Dylan Beyda won’t remember this tomorrow, or maybe it’s because Lance is a masochist, or maybe it’s because he’s secretly-not-so-secretly a total romantic, but those are the actual words that come out of Lance’s mouth.

Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda tuns his head to look at Lance. “So you hoped that by watching a shitty anime where one of the characters vaguely looks like some random dude you saw in a college dorm room, like two months ago, would just magically summon me?”

“So you admit he looks like you?” Lance shoots to cover up his embarrassment.

“I never said that,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda crosses his arms.

“You literally just said that,” Lance points out.

“Not the point,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda lazily waves his hands in the air, “Your logic is tragically flawed. People can’t be summoned by shitty anime.”

“And yet,” Lance says, a shit-eating grin sliding into place, “Here you are.”

“I live here,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda mumbles as he rolls his eyes, but Lance catches a glimpse of a tiny, minuscule, half-smile. “I’m just saying, your plan is shit and you’re either really lucky or the universe just really likes you or both.”

“Are you bitter?” Lance teases.

“About your plan or just in general?” His voice is so dry Lance almost offers him some Gatorade. 

“I was asking about my plan, but it seems like you got that one covered with the ‘in general’ part.”

And then Lance hears a snort that could almost be considered a laugh, and Lance’s face heats up, and his smile grows and his cheeks start to hurt and Lance cuddles down deeper into his blanket nest, hoping Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda doesn’t see.

An episode later, Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda and Lance are both falling asleep, both of them having run out of witty things to say in response to the stupid 80’s anime cliche playing out before them. And that’s when Lance realizes, Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda probably has a name that isn’t Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda, and Lance doesn't know it.

“Hey, um, dude,” Lance waits for a response, making sure Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda is awake before continuing, “I just realized, I don’t know your name.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda doesn’t move, and after a few seconds of silence, says nothing else. 

“Are you going to tell me it?” Lance ask.

“What?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda mumbles, sounding mostly asleep.

“Your name. Are you going to tell me it?” Lance asks. Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda just hums in response. So Lance sighs, accepting defeat: Lance will never know his real name. He will forever be Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda. 

“I’m Keith,” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda mumbles from the heap that he has become.

“What?” Lance asks, not expecting a response.

“I’m Keith,” he repeats, slightly less mumbled.

“Keith what?”

"What do you mean 'Keith what?'" 

"You have a last name or something?"

“Why do you need my last name?”

“I’ve been calling you Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda in my head and Keith just seems so inadequate.” Lance shrugs. 

“Excuse me?” Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda—Keith—still doesn’t move, “I’m sorry my name isn’t some ridiculously elaborate title that conveniently states a visual and a way to complete background checks.”

“Okay, in hindsight, I can see how that could be taken as offensive, but like, dude, I genuinely mean no harm,” Lance says back, the manta-like words flying out of his mouth.

“Why do I get the sense that you say that, like, a lot?”

“Why won’t you tell me your last name?”

“Not even the same caliber of question, my dude,” Keith shakes his head.

“Whatever,” Lance pauses, petulantly, “I have a pretty shitty filter. I answered your question, now answer mine.”

Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda—fuck, _Keith_ —just mumbles something completely unintelligible. 

“What?”

“I’m not repeating it,”

“Honestly dude, you just mumbled something that I didn’t hear.”

“Why does it matter so much to you? Did a man named Keith run over your cat or something?”

“Or something,” Lane shoots.

“Oh, my god,” he mumbles exasperatedly, “I haven’t run over any cats ever, so I’m not your asshat Keith.”

Lance sighs, “I guess I’ll just have to trust you,” Lance says teasingly, trying to save face; he doesn’t want to seem like a crazy person. Plus, there’s no way this Keith is _that_ Keith. Keith is a pretty common name right? Just because this Keith in front of Lance is Asian and Kogane sounds kind of Asian doesn’t mean that this Keith is Keith Kogane or that Keith Kogane is Asian. Like, Lance is Lance _McLean_ and he’s Cuban. 

After a few beats, Keith says, “So what do I call you?”

“What have you been calling me? I want to know the nickname to help me decide if I should tell you my name or not.”

“Dude, I’m not going to lie, I didn't even remember you,” and then he shrugs. He fucking shrugs. You can’t just fucking shrug after a comment like that. Who does this guy think he is?

“Okay, first off, rude. I am _the most_ memorable person on this planet, and I am taking extreme offence to that,” Lance takes a breath, “and second of all, I think you should be calling me something like Super Handsome Hall Guy, or Tall, Dark and Handsome, But Also Charming Guy, or Literal Guy of My Dreams.” Lance realizes a second too late that this isn’t Hunk, and Keith might actually take offence to his bullshit flirting. 

Lance panics for a second, but then Keith just fucking shrugs again and Lance’s panic dissolves into some weird sort of annoyed anger. Lance doesn’t know what makes him more upset; Keith not remembering him, Keith not teasing back, or the fact that Keith just fucking shrugged instead.

Lance is going with a combination of all three.

Lance sighs, “Whatever, my name’s Lance McLean.”

“Cool,” Keith nods noncommittally. 

“Cool?” Lance raises an eyebrow. 

“Sure,” Keith just shrugs.

“Sure?” Lance raises both eyebrows.

“Dude, I honestly have no idea what you want from me right now,” and then he blinks.

“Wow, Lance is such a cool name! I wish my name was Lance and not something dumb like Keith!” Lance mocks.

“Hi, my name’s Lance and I’m incredibly immature and mock people I just met and watch shitty American anime from the 80’s,” Keith mocks back.

“Hi, my name’s Keith and I’m just as immature and watch just the same amount of shitty American anime form the 80’s, except I kind of look like the main character.”

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance, and after a beat says, “I don’t even sound like that.”

“Whatever man,” now it’s Lance’s turn to shrug, except while mid-shrug, he start to yawn, and that is just not suave at all. No siree. 

“Oh no, do not start,” Keith yawns, “I hate you.” Lance just blows a kiss, and Keith rolls his eyes.

“Okay, dude, as much as I love sitting here bickering and watching shitty anime, I’m pretty sure the crazy headache I’ve got going, is from extreme fatigue.” Lance says all this as he starts to untangle himself from his blanket nest. Belatedly, Lance realizes this to be a grave mistake because there is a vast temperature difference between the underside of three blankets and two pillows and the outside ambiance.

Keith sighs, “I hate to admit it, but you're probably right.” Then he stands up, reaching his hands high above his head and leaning back, popping his spine, letting Lance catch a glimpse of those gorgeous, slim hips of his. And fuck, Lance doesn’t know if Keith even notices, but as he reaches the peak of his stretch, he lets out this _groan_ , and for the second time tonight, Lance’s brain just goes full on blue-screen-of-death.

Lance clears his throat, hoping to _get a fucking grip_ , and turn to the mess of blankets and pillows that made up his nest, sighing softly before starting on folding. 

“Here, let me help,” Keith says, sliding up next to Lance, grabbing a blanket and folding it way nicer than Lance even attempted, completely effortlessly.

And Lance doesn’t know why, but his still-rebooting, sleep-deprived brain takes this as a fucking challenge. 

“You trying to one up me with your superior folding skills?” Lance asks, his voice harsh, but teasing.

Keith pauses folding the last blanket, looking up at Lance, at first with this slightly confused look, before switching to this weird 80/20 mix of exasperated and amused, before settling on this ridiculously attractive smirk.

“I mean, does it really count as one-upping if my blanket folding skills are so obviously leagues ahead of yours?”

“Ooh,” Lance hisses playfully, “Your words cut deep Dylan Beyda.”

“Sometimes the truth hurts, Lance,” and then he just fucking shrugs, and continues to fold better than Lance. For a second, Lance just stands there watching him fold, Keith’s hands moving smoothly over the cotton of Lance’s blanket, and that’s when Lance notices them. Keith’s wearing a pair of leather fingerless gloves. 

However, Lance doesn’t have time to linger on this because an obnoxious 80’s explosion sound effect alerts him to the forgotten episode of _Thunderbirds 2086_ still playing on the TV behind them. Lance quickly ejects the tape, putting it in it’s weird plastic case, and when Lance turns around, Keith is holding all three of the blankets in his arms, waiting.

“I, um,” Keith starts before he clears his throat, “I’ll walk up with you.”

“Oh,” Lance absently taps the VHS against his palm, “Cool, awesome, yeah, that’s—that would be great, actually.” The air between them is suddenly tense and awkward and Lance is standing in front of the now-turned-off TV and Keith’s standing on the other side of the room, holding the blankets to his chest like a shield and Lance doesn't know what to say or what to do, but he knows that, as much as he needs and wants to go to sleep right this second, Lance also doesn't want to say goodbye to Keith. 

And suddenly Lance’s struck with a horrible sense of helplessness because right in that moment he realizes that he’s stumbled upon another inevitability. Keith whatever-his-last-name-is, is going to become a permanent fixture in Lance’s life and there is nothing he can do to stop it. And as they walk up the four flights of stairs to their shared floor, laughing and swaying and bickering, Lance realizes, he doesn't want to stop it. 

Also, if anybody asks, Lance definitely does not stare at Keith’s number in his phone’s contact list for an hour after they finally do say goodnight.

* * *

“So you guys just watched shitty 80s anime all night?” Pidge asks before lighting a joint. She takes a long drag, and then passes it to Lance. He follows her example, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a moment before passing it back to her.

Lance blows the smoke into the night air watching it swirl and then disperse, “Yeah, basically,” he shrugs, leaning back into the park bench they’re sharing. Lance takes a moment to look up into the stars. “He’s actually really cool.”

“I don't think anyone who spends their Friday night watching _Thunderbirds 2086_ can really be considered cool,” Pidge mumbles, rolling her eyes as she takes another quick puff, “What did you say his name was again?” 

“Keith,” Lance takes the joint and takes a puff.

“Wait,” Pidge turns to face Lance as he lets the smoke out in a steady cloud, raising an eyebrow at her, “Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda’s name is Keith?” 

“I know,” Lance rolls his eyes and takes another puff, “Extremely underwhelming when compared to his nickname, but alas,” Lance passes the joint to Pidge as he lets out the smoke, “We all can't have names from my brilliant brain.”

Pidge takes the joint, letting it dangle, forgotten between her fingers, “His name is Keith,” she repeats, “Keith. As in your sworn enemy?”

Lance sighs, “I don't know,” he shrugs, “I never got his last name,” he defends himself halfheartedly.

Pidge sputters for a moment, waving her arms around in the air in front of her halfheartedly before she finally settles on, “Okay, are you for real?” She points at Lance with the joint in her hand, “Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda has the same name as your so-called ‘rival,’” Pidge puts up _air-quotes_ , before continuing with, “and you didn't bother to find out if they're the same person?” Pidge is nothing but indignation at this point.

“I did ask,” Lance defends himself again, “But he mumbled it to me, and I missed it and when I asked him to repeat it he got all weird.” Lance shrugs, desperately flailing his hands around in his own defence. “I was having such a good time, I didn't want to make it weird and ask again, so I dropped it,” Lance shrugs again, all of his previous passion lost, leaving him slumped in a tired slouch. 

Pidge sighs lightly before mumbling, “What even is your life,” as she shakes her head and takes another puff from the joint before passing it to Lance. 

They pass the joint back and forth in silence for a few moments before Pidge says, “Do you want me to find out for you?” as she passes him the end of the joint.

There’s barely a nub left, but Lance thinks there might be some weed left in there, so he takes a little puff and gets a lung-full of burnt filter for his efforts. “What?” he asks after coughing out a lung-full of smoke.

“Do you want me to find out either who Keith Kogane is, or what Dylan Beyda’s last name is?” Pidge clarifies as Lance coughs a little more and crushes the joint out on the side of the bench, sinking the roach into the trashcan, like, three feet away, with a sick swish.

When Lance turns back to Pidge, she’s holding out an unlit joint. Lance takes it, lights it up and takes the first inhale. He lets out a cloud of smoke and looks back at her. Lance purses his lips, the joint burning down between his fingers, momentarily forgotten. 

What harm could it do? Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda isn’t the same person as Keith Kogane, Lance know this for a fact in his heart. They can’t be the same person. Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda is too…not _nice_ , exactly, but he’s not _Keith Kogane_. And, well, Lance thinks, if Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda is Keith Kogane, well, then…well he’s not so he doesn’t have to think about it. 

With his mind made up, he shrugs and says, “I mean, I don’t think they’re the same person, but, I mean, if you’ve got some free time, and you really want the mystery solved, then be my guest.” Lance takes another deep puff of the joint before passing it to Pidge.

Pidge accepts, taking an equally deep inhale, before she blows out a cloud of smoke into the air beside her, smiling at him, “I’ve always got time for my favourite blue boy and his mysteries,” and she ruffles Lance’s hair. 

Lance can’t help the smile that takes over his face as he leans into her side, laying his head on her shoulder. “Pidge, you know, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Pidge shrugs handing Lance the joint, “Sometimes I’ve gotta remind you why we’re friends.”

Lance takes a deep puff, keeping his head on her shoulder, blowing the smoke, hopefully, not in the direction of her face, “You’re the best Pidge ever, did you know that?”

“Of course I do,” she says and lays her head on top of his, “Let’s take this party train back to the room, whadda say?”

Lance passes her back the joint, “Yeah, sis, I think you got an indica here, and boy, am I feeling it tonight.”

Pidge laughs lightly, getting up from the bench, the joint pressed between her teeth.

“To be fair, though,” Lance says, getting up and stealing the joint from her lips. Pidge lets out a small ‘hey’, which Lance ignores, and takes a small puff, “I got his number.”

Lance passes the joint back to Pidge, a scowl on her face, “What?”

“Dylan Beyda,” Lance shoves his hands in his pockets. The wind is pretty cold tonight. “I got his number.”

“Ooh,” Pidge wiggles her eyebrows, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “Look at you go, a real mans-man.”

Lance shrugs lightly, “All in a days work, Pidge-Pie, all in a days work.”

“Has he text you yet?” Pidge passes Lance the joint as she lets out a puff of smoke. Instead of answering, Lance takes a puff. “I’m taking that as a no,” Pidge sighs lightly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “How many days of radio silence before you go crazy?”

Lance pushes pidge away playfully, “I take it back, you’re the worst Pidge ever!”

Pidge laughs, stealing the joint from Lance and running a few paces ahead. They then make our way back to the dorm, sharing two more joints on the way.

* * *

 

The answer is four days. Keith hasn’t fucking texted Lance for three whole days. Now it’s the fourth day, and Lance is a literal Mess. We’re talking Mess-with-a-capital-M, Mess, complete with pacing, and rambling, and the improper uses of memes. Lance’s even breaking out. He has a stress pimple right between his eyebrows and it kills a little part of him every time he passes a mirror and catches even a glimpse of it. Lance is a Mess™.

Okay, he’s being dramatic, he realizes. Lance understands completely, in the rational part of his brain that Keith is probably just busy. He’s probably been working, or maybe something important is happening in his life, or maybe he just forgot about the whole thing, because he was very inebriated the night they became friends, or maybe he just wants to forget who Lance is and what happened, or maybe he broke his phone in a freak accident, or maybe—

Lance is cut off by the soft _buzz buzz_ of his phone vibrating on his desk. Lance lunges toward it from where he was pacing across the dorm room, snatching it up and opening the messenger app before he can even see who it was that messaged him.

**Hunk Daddy**  
_Lance, I know for a fact that you're pacing still about that guy you're obsessed with, but Pidge and I need actual help on rover and we were both hoping you'd be able to remedy that._

Rover is the pet name for the final project in their shared aerospace engineering course. They just started building the little guy last week, and they’ve been really struggling with some key component pieces. Hunk and Pidge had taken off early in the morning, maybe to avoid Lance’s sulking, or maybe to get an early start on Rover. Either way, they’ve been working all morning and honestly, Lance doesn't know what hurts him more; the passive aggressive tone of the first text he’s gotten from them all day or the fact that it’s not Keith. But with a sigh Lance texts back to the group chat.

**Lancelot**  
_i came out to hav a good tiem a nd i am honestly feeing so attacked right noe_

**Pidgeotto**  
_If ur going to be like this can u at least txt with some level of clarity? Thank._

**Hunk Daddy**  
_^^^^^_

**Lancelot**  
_i am beign Bullied™_

**Pidgeotto**  
_¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

**Pidgeotto**  
_Unfortunate circumstance._

**Pidgeotto**  
_But srsly come help, floor 2, student labs_

And with that, Lance shrugs on a jacket against the sharp February air, and makes his way down to the student laboratories.

* * *

 

“I just don't understand why Keith hasn't texted me,” Lance says around the mechanical pencil in his mouth as he tries to piece together two wires that just do not want to stay. They’ve all been working for the past two hours and Rover still isn't responding to stimuli, and Lance is seriously tired of twisting nearly-microscopic wires together.

“I mean, we had a fun time. We joked and watched _Thunderbirds_ , I don’t understand why he won't talk to me,” Lance continues like he’s not elbow deep in an unresponsive robot.

“You watched _Thunderbirds 2086_. Very different from _Thunderbirds_ ,” Pidge mumbles from where she's crouched under Rover who’s been jacked up about four feet. She glances down at the tablet in her other hand, making a face then flipping though a few pages.

“Have you texted him?” Hunk asks, gently loosening a few, comically small, screws holding an outer plate in place.

“No,” Lance says, perhaps a little lacklustre.

“And why is that?” Hunk asks, calmly, continuing to gently unscrew.

“I don't want to seem overeager,” Lance aggressively twists a few wire strands together.

“Have you considered maybe he’s thinking the same thing?” Hunk asks, again, extremely calm and still unscrewing. How long are those things?

“Shit,” Lance exclaims, snatching his hand out of the probe, as a sharp electrical pulse straight up zaps him, “Rover bit me.”

“Yeah, we’re live, sorry Lance,” Pidge mumbles straightening up from her crouch.

“A little warning next time would be great,” Lance mumbles back petulantly.

Pidge just sighs briefly in return, running a hand through her hair, “Guys, let’s just take five. I’ve got to rerun these numbers; something’s off, and I can’t figure out what, so until then, we’ll be working in circles.”

Hunk abandons the tiny screws and comes over to Lance, wiping his hands and face off with a rag he pulls out of the back pocket of his work overalls. “Listen man, I know you want to seem smooth as ice, but honestly you’re really killing your own game here dude. Like, you know he’s chill with you or he wouldn't have given you his number. Use it bro, maybe he’s shy and waiting for you to make the first move.”

“Okay,” Lance inspects his fingers: they're a little pink, but otherwise okay. “But like, what if he’s, like, super busy and just forgot about me or something?”

“Lance, I don't think anybody in the history of ever can possibly forget you,” Hunk lays a big, beefy hand on his shoulder, and if that doesn’t just warm Lance to the very core.

“Hunk, as much as that makes me tear up,” Lance mimes wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “Seriously, bro, you're the best bro another bro could ask for,” Lance slides up next to Hunk, leaning his head on Hunk's shoulder dramatically. “But he’s already forgotten me once,” Lance says this sobering almost immediately.

“I don't think he'd forget you after _Thunderbirds_ night,” Hunk pats Lance on the shoulder.

“ _Thunderbirds 2086_ is, again, very different from _Thunderbirds_ ,” Pidge calls from her workstation.

“But seriously, Lance. Text him.” Then Hunk stands up, “Yo, Pidge, I’m gonna get us some lunch, think you can manage for that long?”

Pidge throws up a thumbs up over her laptop, still furiously typing away at it. “Hit me with that good egg salad on that, like, vegan bread, from the cafe.”

“You got it. Lance?”

“Pastrami on rye with extra packets of hot sauce,” Lance calls back, “I’m insulted you even had to ask.” Hunk just shrugs and ducks into the hallway.

Lance sighs lightly. With Hunk gone, and Pidge doing the calculations for our final project in this class, Lance has nothing to do but go on his phone. So, Lance pulls it out, opens the messages app, opens a new text conversation, and types in Keith’s name. Lance stares at the empty text box, not sure what to write.

**Lance**  
_Hey, Keith, this is Lance._

No that’s dumb, also too much punctuation. This is a text message not an email. 

**Lance**  
_miley whats good_

Nope, that’s worse. Too casual.

**Lance**  
_hi my names keith and i dont text people i said i was going to text while admittedly pretty intoxicated_

Probably not the best idea, but it’s funny. Lance goes to press the backspace button, but instead he presses send and Lance sees his entire life flash before his very eyes. The reply comes after a very tense minute.

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Hi my name’s Lance and I like to start conversations with a low-key insult._

Yikes.

**Lance**  
_would u believe me if i told u that i hadnt meant to send that_

Play it cool, McLean. _Play it cool._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Um, let me just quickly check my Bullshit-o-meter™_

The reply comes after a moment, followed almost instantaneously by:

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Yeah, no it says you're full of literal shit._

**Lance**  
_i resent that_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Anyway, what’s up?_

Lance glances up at Pidge, who’s still furiously tapping away at her computer, flipping between glaring at the screen, her notebook sitting beside her, and her long forgotten tablet.

**Lance**  
_not much._

**Lance**  
_just working on my final project for aerospace engineering._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Okay, that’s admittedly cool as hell, but you do realize that it’s currently February._

**Lance**  
_ya bro i know. but im literally doing rocket science. this shit takes time._

**Lance**  
_u can’t just throw together a space probe_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Wait, shit._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_You're actually building a fucking robot?_

**Lance**  
_ya_

**Lance**  
_thats what aerospace engineering is????_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Oh my god._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Okay. I defo thought you just had to like write a paper or something._

**Lance**  
_i mean i still have to write a lab report on the process and how it works etc, , but like the main hoe project is building a really cool robot_

**Lance**  
_nd if u honestly think that my report isnt being written the week before its due, u obviously know nothing about who i am as a person_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_That is honestly so cool._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_I mean the robot building part. Not the procrastinating._

**Lance**  
_ya, but u have to admit that was a pretty Relatable Moment™_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Get away from me with that meme culture bullshit_

**Lance**  
_honey, you’ve got a big storm comin’_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_I hate that I understood that reference_

**Lance**  
_the fact that u got that reference is a good indicator that we should continue being friends._

After a few moments of no response, Lance closes the screen of his phone; gotta preserve that battery life.

Did he over-step somehow? Like, did he come on too strong with the memes? Lance assumed that most people liked memes. Lance likes memes so shouldn’t Lance try and share what he likes? Doesn’t that make sense?

Lance pulls one of his knees to his chest and rests an elbow on it, only to start worrying the side of his thumbnail in his mouth.

Does Keith not consider Lance a friend? Like, he was texting Lance just fine until Lance had to go and DTR. Also, what the fuck, who even says DTR anymore? Is Lance a 14 year old girl in the early 2000’s on her first date?

Lance turns his head to look stare at the wall, his foot tapping on the floor absently.

Did Lance scare him away? Because Lance does that sometimes; Lance knows he can be a lot to handle. It’s just that when Lance likes someone, he gets really excited and he just really wants them to like him. Lance’s excited-ness and his urge to please coupled with his natural too-much-ness can come off as overzealous, and that totally scares people off, Lance knows that. So why does he continue to—

“Lance!” Pidge’s sharp voice cuts through Lance’s internal rambling. “I’m trying to concentrate here. Can you not tap your foot incessantly like that, please?”

Lance snaps to cross-legged, “Sorry, Pidge.”

“It’s fine,” Pidge mumbles, going back to her work, “What’re you doing over there anyway?”

“Keith texted me,” Lance mumbles with a shrug.

“Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda?” Pidge clarifies still typing absentmindedly.

“Yeah,” Lance says, looking back down at his phone, hoping that he just missed his phone vibrating and there’ll be a notification waiting for him on the screen. Predictably, there’s not, but Lance’s still disappointed.

“Finally,” Pidge mumbles back, “I thought you were going to go postal soon.”

“I was not going to go postal,” Lance whines back at her.

Pidge stops typing, “The only thing you’ve been able to talk about for the last few days has been Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda not texting you. You were, like, four hours from going totally postal.”

“I was not!”

“Totally postal,” Pidge snickers, “We’d’ve started calling you United Lance is Totally Postal Service.”

“Okay, that was lame,” Lance rolls his eyes and crossed his arms, “United Lance is Totally Postal Service wouldn't even a good postal service.”

Pidge snorts and rolls her eyes, “With you as its figurehead, it would tank in a year.”

“Rude!” Lance shouts indignantly.

Pidge sends another smirk, “Sorry, buddy,” before she turns back to her computer, “Just chill out, dude. Play some CandyCrush, watch some porn, I don't care, just,” she pauses for a second, looks back at Lance, “Stop being annoying.”

Lance crosses his arms, “Honestly, Pidge, I think watching porn would do the opposite of make me less anno—” the _buzz buzz_ of a text notification cuts him off, “—ying.”

Lance hastily opens his phone, and opens the messenger app, only to see that Keith has sent him a link. Lance clicks on it and it opens the youtube app.

It’s the fucking video. It’s the _you could stop at five or six stores_ video. It’s not the original version; it’s been edited for comedic effect. But it’s so fucking funny.

**Lance**  
_bruh_.

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Bruh_.

**Lance**  
_my skin is clear_

**Lance**  
_my children are fed_

**Lance**  
_my crops are flourishing_

**Lance**  
_the sun is shining_

**Lance**  
_life could not be better for me right now_

**Lance**  
_i have been healed._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_you know,,,you can send thing s,,,,in one message,,,,,,stop pressing enter_

**Lance**  
_are u going to shame me about double texting?_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

**Lance**  
_well, it’s an impossible task_

**Lance**  
_i have zero shame about it_

**Lance**  
_i'll double text_

**Lance**  
_triple text_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_stop_

**Lance**  
_fuck I’ll even quadruple text_

**Lance**  
_buzz buzz bitch_

**Lance**  
_guess who it is_

**Lance**  
_it me_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_I hate you_

**Lance**  
_You better fucking not because I’ve started making us friendship bracelets and if you’re backing out on me now, I’m going to have to sell them on Etsy and I really don't want to have to immerse myself in that kind of environment._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Why are you so Extra™_

Record scratch, freeze frame, Morgan Freeman narration: _And this, folks, is when Lance realized he was royally fucked._

* * *

With that Keith becomes a daily part of Lance’s life. It starts with memes, like most things in Lance’s life do. For almost one week Lance sends Keith at least one horribly obscure, shit meme a day until Keith is sending them back, adding vine compilations of varying lengths and screenshots of bad amazon finds to the stream. They build up a sort of repertoire; sending each other things they think will make the other laugh. 

Then Lance convinces Keith to download snapchat and the near constant texting becomes totally constant texting and snapchatting. It was inevitable that, by a month after the fated _Thunderbirds 2086_ incident, they’d start hanging out pretty regularly.

They start with meeting up every Friday night to watch _Thunderbirds 2086_ , and by the second Friday night they move the VHS machine into Keith’s dorm room, and continue the new tradition there, complete with takeout and beanbag chairs. They move on to going out for lunches, and then coffees, and then the occasional froyo.

They have a 28-day streak on snapchat, and Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t super proud of that fact.

And while they talk all the time, Lance has somehow managed to dodge any and all mentions of school, despite the fact that both Keith and Lance, go to the same one. And it’s not because Lance wants to keep Keith at arms length—the complete opposite actually—it’s just that whenever school’s brought up, Lance immediately changes the subject.

Because Lance can’t help thinking about how far his marks have dropped since high school, how much harder he’s had to work to stay competitive with everyone else, how despite all the work he’s put in, he still might not be good enough for the career he wants. Every time Lance starts thinking about school, his skin crawls and his chest constricts with the weight of his anxiety.

And it’s not like Lance is just trying to keep Keith in the dark on purpose—he’s really not. It’s just that, talking to Hunk and Pidge about school is inevitable. Hunk has known Lance better than Lance does since before they could even walk, and Pidge is an evil genius with no concept of personal boundaries. Not to mention that the both of them are the nosiest people Lance has ever met in his life (and he has three other incredibly nosy siblings, _by the way_ ).

So, because keeping Hunk and Pidge out of his sad school life is impossible, and—at the risk of sounding _sappy_ —Lance just wants someone who he can relax with. Someone who doesn’t know that he’s failing PHYS-113, or that he’s barely scraping by in CLAS-145, or that the Pilot Project that Lance has been lusting after since he found out about it in eleventh grade, is slipping away faster than Lance would honestly like to think about.

So, he just doesn’t talk about it. And whenever Keith used to bring up any sort of school related thing, Lance shut it down, and now, a solid month-and-a-half into their new friendship, Keith and Lance don’t talk about school.

Like, at all.

Ever.

And Lance is more than fine with that.

However hesitant Lance is about sharing any sort of school-related knowledge, he’s more than willing to share his friends with Keith, and slowly, their lives and friend groups start start integrating together.

Keith and Pidge hit it off right away, ganging up on Lance like the little gremlins they are, mercilessly picking on him. Then Hunk and Keith bond over their shared love of cooking, believe-it-or-not. Keith is absolute garbage at cooking, but after a few kitchen sessions with Hunk, his food is actually edible and on the road to actually delicious.

Keith introduces Lance to his roommate, Shiro, first, who is so cool, and so fucking hot. Like Lance is talking, unnaturally hot. He’s easily six feet tall and his shoulder-to-waist ratio could put Chris Evans to shame. Honestly, Lance’s pretty sure Shiro could benchpress not only Lance, but also Keith, at the same time, and not even break a sweat.

Then, out of fucking nowhere, Keith introduces Lance to his super hot, but totally out of Lance’s league "friend", Allura. She's a solid 5'11 of pure otherworldly, ethereal, regal beauty. And do not even get Lance started on how freaking smart she is! She's currently got a 3.9 GPA which Lance thinks is overly impressive. However, whenever asked, Allura always says something about how "you can't win them all," and how “we all have flaws."

Basically, all the people Keith hangs out with are just as superhumanly hot and amazing as he is.

That being said though, Lance isn’t convinced there's not more going on between the three of them than they're letting on. Like, Lance doesn't know if they realize it or not, but like, they touch each other all the freaking time. Lance’s talking prolonged shoulder touches, linking their arms together when they walk, bumping shoulders when they walk, holding hands! Like, Lance saw Shiro and Allura kiss one time by accident and it's totally believable that they're in a relationship, but Lance is like 84% sure that Keith is somehow involved and they just don't want to make him uncomfortable.

For the record, Lance would like to say, that polyamory between consenting adults would never weird him out. Lance is all for consensual polyamory.

And Lance is not about to ask Keith about it. Like, realistically, it’s none of Lance’s business. If Keith wants to tell him about the super hot three-way he’s in, then great, if not that’s totally cool; it’s Keith’s business to keep as public, or private, as he wants.

That being said, however, doesn't make Lance any less jealous. Of whom Lance is jealous of—well, he hasn't decided. Maybe Lance is just generally jealous over the fact that he’s not involved in a super hot three-way. Like, who wouldn’t be?

(Or maybe Lance is jealous of the fact that two whole people other than him get to be with Keith in a non-platonic way. Maybe that’s what he’s jealous of. Maybe, but probably not.)

* * *

Keith and Lance are hanging out. Lance is eating some spicy Mongolian udon, and Keith’s munching on spicy chicken cow mien. They’ve been watching old episodes of _Pokemon_ all evening, having finished _Thunderbirds 2086_ two weeks ago. Lance is just slurping up the last of his udon when he gets a text from Pidge.

**Pidgeotto**  
_Dude, red alert, weedman got arrested._

**Lancelot**  
_wait shit actually??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_Ye_

**Lancelot**  
_shit_

**Lancelot**  
_bummer._

**Pidgeotto**  
_Yea, not good, but I found us another guy._

**Lancelot**  
_already??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_I’m insulted._

**Lancelot**  
_no i just mean that was fast_

**Lancelot**  
_is it already our weedkend??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_yeeeeee_

**Pidgeotto**  
_But I can’t pickup, so I told him you would get us 1oz_

**Lancelot** _1oz???_

**Lancelot**  
_who r we inviting??_

**Lancelot**  
_or was ur week just that shit??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_My bro wants in and I was gon ask if u wanted to bring someone_

**Lancelot**  
_ok u cool w keith?_

**Pidgeotto**  
_I like him more that I like u so sure_

**Lancelot**  
_Rude_

**Lancelot**  
_send me the deets_

She sends Lance a number.

**Pidgeotto**  
_His name’s Rolo_

**Lancelot**  
_rolo??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_Idk man, 21st century parents are weird as hell_

**Lancelot**  
_touche_

**Lancelot**  
_r we lighting up tonite??_

**Pidgeotto**  
_If you're free???_

**Pidgeotto**  
_I know tonight is Keith night._

**Lancelot**  
_its actually called Unofficial Watch Anime With Keith Night™_

**Lancelot**  
_just fyi_

**Lancelot**  
_wait shit that sounded pretty gay_

**Lancelot**  
_Do Not say a word_

**Pidgeotto**  
_I’m not saying anything._

Lance glances up at Keith over the top of his phone. Keith’s watching the TV, absently chewing on his chow mien, his face bathed in blue light. Lance can’t help noticing how long Keith’s eyelashes are. Frick, have they always been that long? And the blue light from the TV gives an almost glowing, ethereal quality to his smooth, pale skin. Sharp shadows cast themselves in the dips of his cheekbones and along the ridges of his jawline. Keith’s eyes twinkle as he chuckles lightly to something that’s happening on the screen in front of him, the low lighting making his already strange purple eyes even stranger.

Lance clears his throat lightly and shakes his head, “Hey, Keith.” Keith hums in acknowledgement, and Lance continues, focusing, “Do you smoke?”

“Smoke what?” Keith continues to chew, not even glancing in Lance’s direction.

“Stoner words, bro, stoner words,” Lance shoots, trying to play it cool.

“If you’re asking if I smoke weed, the answer is,” Keith pauses to swallow, but Lance like’s to believe it’s for dramatic effect, “I’ve never tried it. But I sometimes smoke cigarettes,” Keith just shrugs, shoving another mouthful of chow mien into his mouth.

“Okay, so you’ll suck on a cancer stick, but you won’t smoke something doctors give to cancer patients? Weed is basically medicine.”

“I never said I wouldn't smoke weed, I just said I never have,” Keith mumbles around the chow mien in his mouth. He swallows, and Lance does not watch his Adams apple bob. “Cigarettes were easier to get when I was a teen.”

“Said no teen ever,” Lance mumbles.

Keith shoots me a look, “I don’t know what kind of teen experience you had, but finessing cigarettes off my dad was pretty easy when I was fifteen. Much easier than the weed experience at least.”

“Hold up,” Lance holds a hand in the air, “Did you just say finesse?”

Keith levels an unimpressed look at Lance, the blue glare from the tv casting shadows across his face in strange lines, “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

“Am I rubbing off on you?” Lance can’t help placing a disbelieving palm over his heart.

“You are definitely not rubbing off on me,” Keith rolls his eyes, a small smile on his face.

“Oh, I think I totally am,” a wicked smile steals onto Lance’s face, “First I get you hooked on Snapchat filters, now I’ve got you saying finesse. What’s next? Are you going to start playing PokemonGo?”

“I will never play that,” Keith deadpans.

“Why?” Lance squawks, “We’re literally watching _Pokemon_ right now.”

“Okay, but watching the _Pokemon_ cartoons in my room while eating takeout,” Keith lifts his chow mien, “And playing PokemonGo two years after the hype in public are two completely different things.”

Lance rolls his eyes, “Whatever Too-Kool-For-School-Mullet-Man.”

“God, you’re so lame,” Keith teases back. Lance goes to retort, but whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue because Keith has this soft, fond look on his face. He’s smiling just barely, and his eyes are a soft, beautiful dark purple. The shadows thrown across his face from the blue light of the tv, somehow just make him more attractive. He’s got a chow mien noodle on his chin and Lance’s pretty sure he’s got a grease stain on the collar of his shirt, but somehow Keith’s the most beautiful thing Lance’s ever seen in his life. Lance’s heart skip-misses a beat, leaving him reeling for a second. The butterflies that have been fluttering in his chest turn to elephants and all Lance can do is stare at Keith. Now is not the time to have a gay crisis.

Lance knows in his heart-of-hearts that this look Keith’s giving him is purely platonic, and they’re just bros. Keith’s in that super hot three way with Shiro and Allura anyway, so why on Earth would he want Lance’s scrawny bi ass?

“Well,” Lance starts, his chest compressing under the weight of all those elephants, “You’re hanging out with me, so what does that make you?”

Keith snorts and wipes his face, finally flicking away the stray noodle. “Whatever, McLame, I really don't think street weed is the same weed they give to cancer patients anyway.”

“So what I’m getting from that is that you’d be down to smoke up?”

“Sure.”

“Sweet, awesome, cool,” Lance rambles lightly, “This weekend, is weedkend and Pidge invited her brother and I don't want to endure him alone.”

“Wait, you and Pidge call your weed weekends, _weedkends_?” Keith asks, turning to look back at me from the tv.

“Um yeah?” Lance says, “Have you met me and Pidge?”

“I mean, fair enough,” he mumbles, going back to his chow mien.

“You down, or no?” Lance looks down at his phone, “Because I have to leave like asap to pick up.”

“I mean, I like Pidge more than I like you, so sure.”

“Okay, one, rude,” Lance places a hand over his chest “And two, I hate the fact that, that was also what she said when I asked if I could bring you along.”

“Nice,” Keith mumbles under his breath.

“Anyway,” Lance drags it out, “I need to go pick up. You can come with if you'd like. Witness your first drug deal. Or you can pop on down to my room. Your choice.” Lance shrugs, nice touch.

“Easier for me to come, then we can just head to your room together.”

“We literally live down the hall. Just admit you want to witness a drug deal.”

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No. I’m not a child.”

“Oh, come on you are the biggest child I know.”

“Please, I have nothing on you.”

“Sure, but you see, I don't actually know myself. I haven’t gone on a self-discovery mission through the Alps.”

“I’ll have you know my self-discovery mission was actually through the Himalayas. Honestly if you’re going to come for my weave like this, at least come for it properly,” Keith rolls his eyes and Lance can’t help the laugh that’s startled out of him.

“I am totally rubbing off on you,” Lance continues their earlier debate.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Keith crosses his arms. “And anyway, this isn’t going to be my first drug deal.”

“Really?” Lance ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Keith shrugs, a half smile on his face, “I was an emo kid in some pretty shitty high schools in Texas. You think this is my first drug deal?”

“So, you admit you had an emo phase?” Lance shoots.

“Fuck off, not the point,” Keith rolls his eyes.

“Keith’s emo phase confirmed,” Lance says, “Catch this in my upcoming documentary.”

“God, why would you make a documentary about me?” Keith kicks out his foot, gently hitting Lance in the leg.

“I’m not, it’s about people who are probably part alien,” Lance quips, kicking Keith back.

Keith places his chopsticks into his mostly finished chow mien, closing the styrofoam lid of the take out container as he rolls his eyes, “Whatever, one of my high schools was lovingly referred to as Skid High. This isn’t going to be my first drug deal.”

“Wait, what was your school called?” Lance asks, disbelieving.

“Skid High,” Keith lets out a breath of a laugh, “Dude, one time there was a knife fight in the cafe over the last chicken wrap, and there was a group of girls that gave blowjobs in exchange for cigarettes.”

“Shit,” Lance breathes out, astonished, “Really?”

“No, I’m just fucking with you,” Keith leans back in the beanbag chair he's sitting in, “I’ve never bought my own drugs before though.”

“Fuck off,” Lance laughs, kicking Keith’s foot lightly as Lance gets up from the floor, “Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

“I guess,” Keith mumbles as he gets up, placing his takeout container on his bed to get rid of later.

* * *

**Lance**  
_hey, this is pidges friend. i’m chillen at the sev on 34th_

**Rolo**  
_cool b there in 10_

“You know, I didn’t think your life could become any more of a cliche, and yet here we are,” Keith grouses as they settle against one of the outside walls of the 7-11 about a block and a half away from the dorm building.

“Whatever,” Lance rolls his eyes, leaning up against the wall of the 7-11. They stand in silence for a while, both of them huddled in their jackets against the chill. “Wanna hear the story of my first drug deal?” Lance asks turning his head to look at Keith.

“Don’t you think that’s a little on the nose?” Keith quips, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets, “I mean for what we’re doing right now.”

“Stop being so paranoid,” Lance rolls his eyes.

“I’m not paranoid, I just think that talking about doing a drug deal while waiting for a drug dealer is a good way for things to go bad,” Keith still isn’t looking at Lance.

“You’re totally paranoid,” Lance teases back at him.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, no heat behind it.

“Okay, so my first drug deal,” Lance starts and Keith rolls his eyes, “I was, like, 15 or 16 and I was with this girl named Andrea. She was a total babe, totally out of my league, kind of a total bitch later on in high school though,” Lance rolls his eyes, remembering Andrea and how fickle she used to be. They dated three different times in high school, never for longer than two months before either of them broke it off. The last time was when Lance realized she was just a selfish, manipulative person who wanted nothing more than people to worship the ground she walked on. And okay, Lance’s had his fair share of desperate moments, but this bitch made serial daters look monogamous.

“Anyway, so we pull up to a 7-11, much like this one here. She hops out the car grabs the drugs and comes back. She’s stashed the drugs in the middle compartment of the car and she’s just doing up her seatbelt when a cop pulls into the stall next to us.

“The lights are off, there’s no immediate threat, but because I’m me, and, like 16, and in the company of a super hot girl, I say, ‘Hey, it’s a police.’ Andrea looks at me and says, ‘Okay, Lance, not funny,’ and I say, ‘No, look, an actual police officer,’ and Andrea looks up, sees the car right next to us, puts the car in gear and backs out of the stall. Both of us were in shock for a few moments, sitting in complete silence as we drove about a block, until I said, ‘That was a police,’ and Andrea immediately started laughing.

“Any time I do a deal now I think of that,” Lance finishes with a shrug and a lopsided smile.

“I can’t believe you’re a real person,” Keith says shooting an amused look at Lance, “The fact that there was a police presence in your first drug deal story, doesn’t make me feel better about mine, though.”

“Ahh, relax,” Lance waves his hand, “There’s no cameras on this side of the 7-11, but there is an ash tray thing right there, so if we’re standing here, people will think we’re smoking. Also, it’s not uncommon for people to approach others for cigarettes at this particular 7-11, so if someone comes over and there’s an exchange it could easily be that.”

“Sounds like you know your stuff,” Keith says.

“Yeah, you could say this ain’t my first rodeo,” Lance shrugs a shoulder, nonchalantly.

“Okay, cowboy,” Keith rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are a touch relaxed and his smile curves his lips a little easier. Lance is so busy looking at Keith that he doesn’t notice the guy approaching them until he’s only a few paces away.

He’s tall, almost unbelievably so, with wide shoulders and thin hips. He’s got an aviator hat pulled over long bleached blond hair, a lock of which has fallen across his forehead. His eyes are dark and seem to be in a permanent state of partially lidded, turned down at the outside corners.

“Rolo?” Keith asks over Lance’s shoulder, voice thick with disbelief, which is weird because Lance definitely didn’t tell Keith that the guy they were meeting was named Rolo.

“Keith?” The guy, who Lance guesses is their guy, asks back, “Funny seeing you here.”

“Wait, you two know each other?” Lance asks, completely not on the same page as the others.

“Yeah, we went to high school together,” Keith says, still looking at Rolo, a strange look on his face. A look, Lance might add, that is _not_ making a weird knot of annoyance build up in his chest.

“Good old Skid High,” Rolo laughs. His voice is deep and rich and lazy, like he smoked before he came here—which now that Lance thinks about it, is probably exactly what happened. “God, who knew I’d ever see you again.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Keith’s voice is a little breathy and he’s smiling lightly, “What’re you doing all the way up here?”

“Nyma and I are road-tripping,” he crosses his corded arms against the chill, “We’re low on money so we’re taking a stop for a bit.”

“Cool,” Keith nods, and Lance doesn’t know why, but he suddenly hates this guy.

“Hey, I hate to be that guy and cut this reunion short, but I don’t really wanna be standing out here anymore,” Lance rubs his arms in an exaggerated shiver, “It’s pretty cold. Uh, Pidge sent me.”

“Oh, shit, Keith you smoke?” Rolo’s got this frustratingly sexy smirk on his face and Lance just wants to punch him in the face.

“This’ll be my first time,” Keith shrugs a shoulder.

“Well, this is some pretty good shit, so I think your first time should be pretty good,” Rolo leans towards Keith as he reaches into his pocket. Lance pulls out the cash and hands it to him as Rolo hands a bag of weed to Keith, not even looking in Lance’s direction once.

“Yeah, thanks,” Keith says, his voice smoothing into something genuine as he shoves the baggie into his jacket pocket.

“No problem, Keith,” Rolo nods his head, “It was cool seeing you again.”

“Yeah, totally,” Keith nods back, “Have fun on your road trip.”

“Thanks, man,” Rolo shoots a peace sign with his giant hands—which what the fuck, who has hands that big—before nodding at Lance briefly and taking his leave.

“Wow, I’m super cold, let’s go back to the dorms,” Lance tries to sound casual, but Lance has ears and even he can hear how stilted and forced his own voice sounds.

“What’s wrong with you?” Keith asks, shooting a look at Lance, a confused smile on his face.

“Nothing,” Lance says, not looking at Keith, “I’m fine, it’s just super cold and I really wanna smoke that weed.”

Keith is silent for a moment, “Okay, whatever.”

They don’t really say much on the walk back to the dorm, and Keith keeps shooting Lance these looks that he’s desperately trying to ignore. All Lance can see is Keith’s soft smile as he looked up at Rolo. How his voice was soft and genuine and how they seemed to share some major History™ and how for some unknowable reason Lance absolutely hates this dude.

They’re about a minute away from the dorm, and about five and a half minutes into Lance’s brooding, when Keith sighs and bumps their shoulders together.

“Angsty doesn’t look good on you,” he says.

“Everything looks good on me, Keith,” Lance says back immediately, “And anyway, I’m not being angsty. That’s your thing.”

Lance can see Keith roll his eyes in his periphery, “Really, though,” Keith presses, “What happened? One second you were telling me about your weed experiences and the next you were being all weird.” Keith pauses, leaving his question unsaid, hoping Lance’ll pick it up and answer him.

Lance ignores the unsaid question, so Keith sighs, grabbing Lance’s arm and pulling him to a stop, forcing Lance to face him. Keith stares at Lance for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed into a scowl.

Lance sighs lightly, “I don’t know,” Lance stalls, trying to come up with a completely platonic reason for hating Rolo. Lance sighs again, “I guess I—” Lance cuts himself off, “Don’t you think he was a little bit rude to me? I mean, I get he’s your friend or whatever, but he didn’t even look at me once.”

“Lance, I think you’re being a little overdramatic,” Keith’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“You know what, it’s really not a big deal,” Lance starts walking again, taking strides so long that Keith has to jog lightly to keep pace. “I didn’t even really want to talk about this.”

“Okay,” Keith huffs, “Fuck can you slow down? Not everyone has a body made of 90% legs, you know.”

Lance sighs and slows his roll, “Look, Keith, nothing is seriously wrong, I think maybe I’m just jumpy because I wanna smoke this weed. Let’s just go back to my dorm, warm up and chill out for the next couple hours, okay?”

Keith looks at Lance for a few moments, his eyebrows furrowed, before he relents, “Sure, okay, whatever."

“Cool,” Lance injects false cheer into his voice, but this time it only sound about 30% fake, so Lance is taking that as a win.

* * *

“Ya boy is back and ready to toke,” Lance says, throwing the door to his and Pidge’s dorm room open. 

“Please never say any of that ever again,” Keith says, following Lance into the room at a much more sedate pace, closing the door lightly behind him.

“That was easily the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said,” Pidge teases as she flicks a lighter absently.

“Okay, that’s a goddamn lie and we all here know that,” Lance crosses his arms, mock-annoyance heavy in his voice.

“That’s true,” Matt finally pipes up from where he’s slumped in Pidge’s desk chair, absently swinging it back and forth. “I can think of at least ten things Lance has said that are way more embarrassing than that.”

“Okay, is the Lance Roast Sesh over?” Lance rolls his eyes, pulling the bag of weed out of his pocket, “Because if so, I’d really love to smoke up.”

Matt sits up a little straighter in the desk chair, “I’ll start rolling,” he says putting his hands up to catch.

“Awesome,” and Lance tosses him the weed. Matt catches the bag and turns back to the desk.

“Okay, so how stoned was Rolo when you met him? Because he texts exactly how a high person talks,” Pidge rolls her eyes as she leans against her bed post, tossing her lighter between her fingers instead of lighting it.

“That’s just how he is,” Keith says before Lance has the chance to say anything. And although Lance is really trying not to be an emo piece-of-shit right now, Keith talking about Rolo— _for whatever reason_ —makes him want to punch a wall. Or Rolo. Directly in his dumb, handsome, angular, stoner face.

“Apparently Keith and Rolo are pals from high school,” Lance says, trying his best not to sound bitter, but failing pretty miserably.

“Small world,” Pidge says glancing between where Lance has moved to his closet to hang up his coat and where Keith is hovering just inside the doorway. Lance can feel Keith’s eyes burning holes into the back of his neck and Lance pretends putting away his coat is super hard.

“Anyway,” Matt says after a probably too long stretch of silence, “I’ve got two rolled if y’all wanna start,” and he holds out two joints.

Pidge grabs one and Lance steps forward to grab the other. “Keith, I’ll get this one started for you and then we can share,” Pidge says when it becomes clear that Lance isn’t going to say anything, “Looks like someone shit in his Wheaties.”

“Sure,” Keith clears his throat and makes his way into the room properly, taking a seat next to Pidge on her bed. He doesn’t look at Lance and maybe that just makes things a little bit worse.

Lance decides to tune them out. Lance needs to chill. And you know what helps Lance chill? Weed. Lance digs through his bedside table, knocking over a half-used bottle of lube, a half-empty box of condoms, a mostly empty pocket packet of tissues, some pencils and a small bong to find his lighter.

Straightening, Lance places the joint between his lips and burns the tip off before inhaling smoke deep into his lungs, desperate to feel that soothing warmth curl low in his chest. And as Lance lets out his first lungful, he feels tension seep out of his shoulders, more a mental reset than a weed-related chill, but Lance isn’t picky.

Lance takes a seat on his bed, letting himself be alone for a second—just him and his joint, just chillen. After about five-ish minutes, Pidge calls over, “Hey McLame, you done being emo, or do you need another second?”

Lance takes another quick puff, “Nah,” Lance stands, “I think I’m chill now.” And just like that, Lance’s self-imposed banishment has ended. And if Keith sends Lance a few too many odd looks, Lance is none-the-wiser.

* * *

“Okay, no, Pidge stop fighting, let me tell my goddamn story,” Lance’s laughing as he’s trying to push Pidge off of him and onto the floor.

“No,” she drags it out as she struggles to keep Lance tackled, “I’ve heard this story fifty million times,” her glasses knock into the side of Lance’s face and he thinks there’s a little scratch, but he doesn’t really care because he’s too busy laughing and fighting off a wiggling Pidge.

“Keith’s never heard this one,” Lance whines directly into her ear as she continues to try to shut Lance up with her entire body, “C’mon, you secretly love this story, it’s so funny.”

“No, fuck off,” Pidge whines again, one of her palms hitting the side of Lance’s face.

“I don’t think I’ve heard this one either, Pidge-Pie,” Matt shoots from where he’s slumped in Pidge’s desk chair, absently swinging it side to side as he rolls joints.

“No,” Pidge calls again, “Matt, don’t betray me like this,” Pidge finally relents, “Lance, you’ve taken everything from me.”

Lance laughs and Pidge digs her tiny evil fingers into his side in retribution. Lance’s laugh turns into a less than dignified screech. “Tell your dumb story, McLame,” Pidge mumbles poking his side one last time before she rolls off him to lay beside Lance on his bunk.

“Okay, so,” Lance starts, catching a glimpse of an amused Keith in the corner of his eye, “I was like 16-ish, and a friend and I were chillin’ in their back yard, smokin’ weed around a fire, no big deal right?”

“Sure, yeah, totally normal Saturday night,” Keith says, visibly trying to suppress a smile.

“Right, so we’re smoking, and we’re smoking pretty fast. Like I smoked, like, a gram in, like, twenty minutes,” Lance waves his arms a little, “So, we were both feelin’ pretty awesome at this point. And that night, the stars were super bright from their backyard, and as we all know, I’m a fucking slut when it comes to space.”

“Just space?” Pidge mumbles into the mattress she still has her face smushed into. Keith snorts.

Lance ignores Pidge, deciding to just continue with the story instead of dignifying that with a response. “And so I like finish a bowl and put my pipe aside, and, like, just lean back in my chair or whatever.

“But like, okay, at the time I was working in retail—just, like, this tiny clothing store in my hometown, or whatever. And earlier that week this really, _really_ cute kid had come in with his parents. And like this kid was so cute. God, such a baller too. Like this kid, I’ll never forget, had these little jean shorts on, that he paired with a spider-man pyjama shirt and a khaki boat hat, then completed the look with a pair of sunglasses that he wore the entire time he was in the store and those little kid flip-flops that have the heel-strap. This kid was a goddamn icon.” Both Matt and Keith are giggling now.

“And this kid walks up to the jewelry rack and he cups his hands so gently around a bunch of these leaf necklaces and he just says, in the tiniest, most reverent voice,” Lance pauses and clears his throat, “‘They’re beautiful,’” Lance smooths his words, having them drip in a copied version of that kid’s awe.

“And, fuck, if my poor heart didn’t just stop right that second. Then the kid just gently lets go of the necklaces, straightening them so nicely before he runs off after his parents who were leaving the store.

“Now flash back to 16 year old me, high as shit. As I lean back into this fucking lawn chair on this clear starry night, my eyes catch on this bright ass star in the sky and the second my back hits the back of the chair, it’s like I’m fucking flying through hyperspace towards this star.

“Like honest-to-God, it looked kinda like the hyper jumps look on _Star Trek_. Then just as I was getting closer to the star, I zoom away from my body, and I watch myself flying towards the star, and that fucking baller ass kid, fucking—” Lance has to stop here to laugh, “That fucking kid just astral projects over the image of me zooming towards this star and he cups his hands gently around me and the star and in that cute little voice he says, ‘They’re beautiful,’ at the goddamn same time I say that out loud, a single fucking tear rolling down my cheek.”

And Lance can’t keep it together anymore, he’s laughing along with he others now, Pidge included. Deep heaving gasps leaving him, tears escaping his eyes and he just—laughs.

“I was then slam dunked back into my body and couldn’t stop laughing for the next hour,” Lance says once everyone has calmed down enough to get more than a few words out.

“Fuck,” Keith says, “That didn’t happen, there’s no way that happened.”

“Nah, dawg,” Lance drawls, “Totally happened, can confirm, even wrote it in my drug journal.”

“Your what?” Matt asks, still wiping tears out of his eyes.

“My drug journal,” Lance shrugs, suddenly self conscious. Lance rubs the back of his neck, “Ever since I was, like, fifteen, I’ve been writing or drawing or whatever in a journal while high. I mean, I don’t really do it that much anymore because nothing really awesome happens anymore, but like when I was younger, I’d document my adventures in real-time.”

“No way,” Matt says, “Do you still have it?”

“I mean, yeah, but like,” Lance shrugs, looking away, feeling a little exposed, “It’s kinda personal. I mean,” Lance laughs a little stiffly, “I wrote five pages of my deepest, darkest fears in there when I did shrooms last summer, and let me tell you, it’s not pretty.”

There’s an awkward silence then, no one sure how to pick up the conversation from there. The silence is eventually broken by Pidge who slaps her hands on her thighs and says, “Whelp, I’ve gotta pee, who’s coming?” The she stands up with a giant stretch.

“Oh, hey, Pidge,” Matt says, sitting up a little from where he’s slumped in her desk chair, “I really need to tell you something.”

“What,” Pidge places her hands on her hips, waiting.

“I’ve just been meaning to tell you something for a really long time, and I’ve ever known how to say it right, and I don’t know, I guess I’ve been trying to work up the courage to tell you this.” Matt rambles a little, knotting his hands together in his lap as he goes on.

“Matt, what the fuck, spit it out,” Pidge shifts her weight, her face falling into a concerned frown.

“I’m trying, it’s just super hard for me to tell you. I’m really trying here. Look, just give me a second,” Matt lets out his breath, “Oh man, wow this is a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be.”

“Dude, do you want us to leave?” Lance cocks an eyebrow, concerned for the siblings, “This seems serious.”

“It is serious,” Matt says, “But you don’t have to leave. I want everyone to know. Because like, I mean this is for Pidge, but also for everyone yanno?” Matt shakes his hands out, “I’m just gonna say it. It’s not a huge deal. I can do this.”

Matt takes a deep breath, “Pidge,” he looks up, straight at her, “You’re a big fucking loser.”

Everyone sits in stunned silence for a few beats, the bit not completely sinking in for a few moments. Keith, believe-it-or-not, is the first one to crack, an adorable giggle escaping him, quickly followed by Lance and then Matt. Pidge stands there in the middle of the room, shocked for a few more beats and then she’s reaching onto her bed and grabbing a pillow to beat the shit out of Matt.

“Fuck off, asshole,” she says, her teeth clenched as she beats Matt with her liberated pillow, “You had me genuinely worried. I thought you were gonna tell me you were dying or something.”

“Sorry, fuck,” Matt says between giggles, “I just, fuck it just came to me and it was too good to pass up.”

“I fucking hate you, asshole,” Pidge lands one last good hit before she backs off, “Officially disowned.”

Matt laughs a little bit more, before he stands up too, “Whatever, the snack machine is right by the bathroom right?”

“Fuck off, no snacks for you,” Pidge half-heartedly bumps Matt’s shoulder as he passes her on his way to the door.

“Rude,” Matt chuckles a little, “You scrubs want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Keith says, a small, almost dream-like smile curling his lips. Keith’s smile is gorgeous, which makes sense because the rest of him is also gorgeous, but like, Lance thinks his smile is really something else. Keith never smiles; he’s always either frowning, scowling or deadpanning and so this smile is something like a rare treat for Lance, no matter how small and inane it is.

“Lance?” Matt probs, and Lance snaps back to reality.

“What?” Lance says maybe a little too loud.

“Do you want a snack?” Matt asks again, his eyebrows disappearing into the ginger fringe on his forehead, a more than incredulous look on his face.

“Oh, right,” Lance clears his throat, “No, thanks, gotta stay fit if I’m gonna woo all the ladies on campus and vending machine food is not helpful in that endeavour.”

Matt snorts very unattractively while Pidge rolls her eyes, a fond smile on her face. “Whatever, Lance,” Pidge mutters as she makes her way to the door.

Matt follows her, walking backwards out the door, calling, “Holts out,” as he goes.

The door closes behind them and suddenly, things aren’t as light anymore—suddenly the room feels tight, too small and awkward and for once in his life, Lance doesn’t know what to say.

“So,” Keith breaks the silence, “A drug journal?”

“Yeah,” Lance coughs into his fist, “It’s kinda dumb, but I had all my siblings on snapchat and didn’t really want them to know what kind of high shenanigans I was getting into, but I also wanted to document my adventures so I started writing them in a journal. Also, this way if anyone ever found my journal, there’s plausible deniability.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, “Plausible deniability?”

“Yeah,” Lance shrugs, “Like, I could just say it’s, like, a first-person short story I’m working on.”

“So, I take it you never signed the ends of the journal entries?” Keith asks.

“Oh no, I totally did,” Lance laughs a little, “I never said it was a foolproof plan, but it was better than photographic evidence.”

“No, totally,” Keith says, “I think it’s pretty awesome, actually.” Keith shrugs shallowly, “I mean, maybe it’s better to have it written down instead. That way you have thought processes and stuff, too, that you can never really get with a camera.”

“Yeah,” Lance lets out a chuckle, feeling the elephant that had made its home on his chest lift a little, “When you put it that way, it’s almost cool.”

Keith shrugs and sends Lance this _look_ —this heartbreakingly soft smile, where the corners of his mouth lift up, lopsidedly, and the outside edges of his eyes droop down, just slightly, and the hard edges of Keith’s face just melt.

And so does Lance’s heart.

“It’s totally cool, Lance,” Keith says, and Lance didn’t think it was possible for Keith to sound so soft, but here he is. Experiencing the softest voice Lance has ever heard come out of Keith.

And Lance is definitely dying because he can’t breathe in a way that has nothing to do with smoking too much weed, and all too much to do with the unfair ways of Keith “Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda” Last-Name.

Then Lance pulls himself together, and rolls his eyes. “If you’re trying to get a look at it, it ain’t happening, buster. No blackmailing will happen on my watch.”

Keith just rolls his eyes at that, his _look_ gone. Lance doesn’t know if he’s happy to see it go or not.

* * *

Lance and Keith are sitting cross-legged, settled on the floor, across from each other, an open window blowing cold air into the room above their heads. They’re passing a pipe back and forth between them absently, letting it burn out in their hands. Lance doesn’t know how much he’s smoked tonight, but he’s feeling pretty good. His head is floating and a loose fog has clouded his brain. Lance is feelin’ pretty good.

Keith looks like he’s feeling pretty good, too. He’s leaning his head against the wall, a lazy smile on his face. He looks so relaxed, and Lance can’t help staring. It’s just, Keith is so pretty. Like, okay, Lance gives him a lot of hell for his hair, and his dumb jacket and his stupid mysterious aura, but, like, if Lance is being honest with himself—which he is, thank you very much—he really, really likes it.

Like, Keith’s hair is actually really nice. Sure, it’s mullet shaped, but it’s also really soft, and it falls so nicely around Keith’s face and along the pale slope of his neck. His hair is also, like, the perfect amount of shiny—it’s not blinding, and it’s not greasy, and it’s not matte, but it’s like, _nice_. It’s really nice.

And it smells good. Lance isn’t sure what shampoo Keith uses—if he even uses shampoo and not just body wash like a heathen—but whenever Keith stands a little too close, or upwind, Lance gets a whiff of something deep and woodsy; a little like sandalwood, but not as spicy.

And his hair is so thick, too. Like god, it’s so thick. Keith’s hair probably sticks to the back of his neck on hot days. It probably curls from the sweat and the heat. Keith probably puts his hair up then, exposing the long, pale lines of his slender neck. It would probably make him feel vulnerable to have a part of him exposed that he normally doesn’t have exposed. But the cool air gliding across his heated skin probably makes up for it.

Lance is struck then with the urge to touch. Lance just wants to touch Keith’s hair. He wants to run his fingers through it and gently pry all of the tangles apart. Lance wants to tuck the longer strands in the front behind Keith’s ears, or maybe weave them into little braids. Lance wants to scratch lightly at Keith’s scalp, and watch his eyelashes flutter closed. Lance wants to move Keith’s hair aside to kiss along his neck. Lance wants—

“So how come Hunk doesn’t smoke with you guys?” Keith asks lightly, passing Lance the pipe, effectively snapping him out of the danger zone.

Lance clears his throat, “Oh, um,” he idly fiddles with the pipe in his hands. The bowl is almost finished, a light ring of green around a circle of ash is all that’s left. “He doesn’t really like to smoke,” Lance starts to scrape the bowl using the end of the lighter, hoping to get some weed instead of ash.

“No?” Keith asks, watching Lance’s hands.

“Nah,” Lance taps the end of the lighter on the rim of the pipe, “He’s not super into the whole inebriation thing. Doesn’t really like drinking either.” Lance flicks the lighter and brings the pipe to his lips.

“Yeah, I get that,” Keith says, watching Lance smoke, “Shiro’s not hot on it either.”

And Lance doesn’t know why, but a small sour ball of something forms in his stomach. He pushes it down as he blows out a cloud of smoke towards the window. “Really?” Lance pauses for a second, “Unsurprising, though now that I think about it.”

Keith just hums noncommittally, closing his eyes.

“Are you dating Shiro and Allura?” Lance didn’t really mean to ask, but the words come tumbling out of his mouth nonetheless.

Keith’s eyes open and his eyebrows crash together, like he’s trying to see if he heard correctly, “What?”

Lance clears his throat and looks down at the pipe in his lap, watching it burn out, “Are you, like, dating Shiro and Allura?”

“What the fuck Lance, no,” Keith says, disgust thick in his voice. “God, they’re like my parents, what the fuck.”

“Sorry,” Lance tries to backtrack, “I just—I don’t know,” Lance pauses, “When I see three super hot people as close as you guys are I immediately assume that y’all are fucking.”

“What the fuck,” Keith mumbles into the wall, closing his eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, “Wait, you think I’m super hot?”

Lance feels his cheeks warm, thankful that Keith’s eyes are closed. Lance clears his throat, “Um, I mean, yeah.” Lance coughs. _Smooth_.

A small smile ticks up the corners of Keith’s lips. “Alright,” he says, sounding pleased as a peach. “You’re pretty hot, too, just sayin’.”

A sweet thrill runs up Lance’s spine. “Okay,” Lance feels a pleased, peachy smile of his own curl his lips, “I can jive with that.”

Keith snorts out a short laugh, and Lance re-lights the pipe, taking a quick pull.

“Sleepy?” Lance asks, letting the pipe burn out in his lap. Keith hums again. Lance chuckles lightly.

“Do you want a snack?” Lance feels his mouth water at the thought of food.

“Actually,” Keith muses, eyes still closed, “Yeah.”

“You gotta get up to get a snack, sleepyhead,” Lance lightly kicks Keiths foot.

“Can’t you just go?” Keith’s voice is pretty monotone, but there’s still a thin, distinct line of a whine.

Lance snorts a laugh, “No, you have to come with me, or I’ll stand there for thirty years trying to figure out what to get.”

Keith opens his eyes, only to roll them. “I really want some snacks,” he says after a moment.

“Then let’s go,” Lance kicks Keith’s foot again.

“Can’t move,” Keith bumps his head against the wall lightly, “Too sleepy.”

“What if I helped you up?”

“I think that might be the only way.”

Lance lets out a snort and rolls onto his feet. He wobbles briefly before he reaches down to haul Keith onto his feet. Once Keith is situated, the pair make their way into the hallway, bypassing the already-sleeping Holt siblings.

“What do think they call the people who work at weed dispensaries?” Lance asks, bumping his shoulder purposely into Keith’s as they walk.

“I don’t know,” Keith shrugs, covering his mouth around a yawn, “Probably just people who work at weed dispensaries.”

“No, don’t be boring,” Lance teases, bumping their shoulders again. “People who sell alcohol are called bartenders—”

“No, that’s people who work at bars and mix drinks,” Keith cuts Lance off, but Lance ignores him.

“I think people who work at weed dispensaries should be called budtenders,” Lance says, a cheeky grin sliding over his features.

Keith stops walking suddenly, causing Lance to stop and turn to Keith with an eyebrow cocked. Keith is staring at Lance, his pretty purple eyes wide and sparkling in the fluorescent hallway lights. He’s got this cute flush high on his cheeks, and his pink lips are open just a crack. He looks shocked, in the most adorable sense of the word.

And then his face is cracking and he’s laughing. Keith’s shoulders are hunched and his head is thrown back and his laugh is loud and deep and Lance’s heart is pounding so hard he fears he might have a heart attack. The only thing Lance can think to do is join him, and soon, they’re leaning on each other, gasping for breath and wiping away tears, laughing their asses off in a dormitory hallway, high as shit.

 _Keith is the cutest man alive_ , Lance can’t help thinking as Keith presses his head into Lance’s shoulder and wipes a tear from under his eye.

“Fuck,” Keith gasps, “Fuck you.” He lets out a few more cute giggles, all of them going straight to Lance’s weak, weak heart. “Fuckin’ budtender. I hate you.”

“Nah, that one really got you,” Lance elbows Keith in the ribs lightly, “I’m never letting this one go.”

“This is why I hate you,” Keith says, looking up at Lance with that same soft, fond, tender look from earlier and in that instant, Lance wants to cry. His heart is too full, and the way Keith is looking at him is too much and Lance can’t do this right now, because he might be a little in love with Keith and it’s just too much for Lance’s little bi-heart to handle.

Lance blinks a few times, his face melting into a fond look of his own as he says, “Let’s go get your snacks, Dylan Beyda,” before nudging Keith in the right direction.

“I think I’m gonna get some plain chips,” Keith says, just as they round the corner coming face-to-face with the vending machines.

“Plain chips?” Lance raises an eyebrow, “Fuckin’ why?”

“Because they’re good,” Keith shrugs as he places a couple of dollars into the machine.

“McExcuse me?” Lance leans up against the vending machine so he can properly see Keith’s face, because apparently, Lance’s little bi-heart is a masochist.

“I like plain chips,” Keith smiles as he watches a bag of plain Lays potato chips fall to the bottom of the vending machine.

“This coming from the guy who orders extra spicy everything,” Lance crosses his arms and rolling his eyes, only because he know’s it’ll rile Keith up more.

“Okay, sure, I like spicy takeout, but I really like plain chips,” Keith pauses, glances at Lance with a small smirk, “Plus salty.”

Lance lets out a snort of a laugh, “Plus salty?”

Keith opens his chips before popping one in his mouth, “Salty.”

They both laugh together for a moment. Lance doesn’t know if they’re laughing at Keith or what, but he knows that he likes the sound of Keith’s laugh and that laughing feels good right now, and that he doesn’t really want to stop.

“Okay, okay,” Lance says, waving his hands in the air, to get them back to reality, “On a scale from 1-10, how would you rate your first weed experience so far?”

Keith rolls his eyes, the tiniest smile lighting up his face. “I’d give this experience so far a solid eight outta ten,” Keith pops another chip into his mouth.

“Only an eight?” Lance leans further against the vending machine, watching as Keith rolls the lip of his open plain Lays potato chips between his fingers. “What would make this experience a ten?”

Keith pauses in his chewing, shooting Lance a look that Lance can’t quite decode, but decides he likes. Keith slowly swallows his mouthful of chip and Lance tracks the movement with his eyes. Keith licks his lips, his pink tongue darting out to catch the grains of salt and chip he might have left there. Keith blinks, and his eyes flicker down to Lance’s mouth.

Lance licks his lips. Keith’s eyes meet Lance’s and Lance looks down to Keith’s lips then back up to his eyes. Lance breathes in and before he can breathe out, Keith’s lips are sealed over his and they’re kissing.

Keith’s hand is cupping the bottom of Lance’s jaw, and Lance fumbles briefly to free his arms from their own hold before he has one sliding through the hair on the back of Keith’s head, the other finding a home on Keith’s waist. Keith tilts his head, deepening the kiss slightly, and Lance can’t help the light moan that he lets out, the hand he has on Keith’s waist, tightening to pull him closer.

They break away for maybe two seconds, foreheads touching, chests heaving, giggles slipping passed their lips, before Lance ducks in again, pressing their lips together. Keith’s lips are plump and a little chapped, but they’re also warm and they taste like weed and Lays plain potato chips and Lance thinks he gets why Keith likes them so much.

* * *

Lance realizes as he’s winding his arms around Keith that night, burying his face in Keith’s hair and slotting their legs together, that having totally less than platonic feelings for Keith is one of the universes many inevitabilities. Inevitable because of the way his hair curls around his ears, because of the way his eyes twinkle when they banter, because of the way his lips curl when he smiles, because of the way his eyelashes flutter when he rolls his eyes. Inevitable from the moment Lance saw Keith all those months ago, stoned out of his mind, standing at a vending machine in a dormitory hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please hmu on my personal tumblr [here](https://sunscreams.tumblr.com) or on my klance tumblr [here](https://klancend.tumblr.com).
> 
> Will update every week, and tagging everything inevitablyklance on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith panics, then Lance panics, and yet, somehow, everything manages to work out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honey, we've got a big storm comin'

Things are weird. Things are definitely weird, and they don’t look to be getting any better, anytime soon. Keith is avoiding Lance, pretty adamantly—he killed their 45 day snap-streak and hasn’t talked to Lance in more than just passing for almost a week.

The morning after their kiss, Lance woke up to an empty room. The Holt Sibs were gone and the place where Keith should have been—snuggled up next to Lance, warm, and soft, and beautiful—was cold, and empty, the sheets rumpled, and the body that should have been there, gone. Lance’s phone was dead and as he plugged it in to come back, he looked for a note from Keith that he would never find. 

No note hastily scribbled on ripped out notebook paper, no sticky note stuck to Lance’s phone, no text, no call, no wake-up-kiss goodbye—nothing. Keith was just gone. As if all their time together meant nothing. As if their kiss meant nothing.

As if Lance meant nothing.

Maybe Keith avoiding him was another one of the universes many inevitabilities. Because if Lance is honest with himself—which he totally is _by the way—_ Keith is way out of Lance’s league. And even if he said that he’s not with Shiro and Allura, he must still know that Lance just isn’t on the same level; in looks, smarts, or otherwise. 

Lance doesn’t want to admit it, but this particular inevitability, really hurts. Because, sure, at this point Lance is willing to admit he fully has a crush on Keith. And not only is Lance crushing on Keith like no tomorrow, but Keith was his friend. They went from talking every day, seeing each other almost as often, to nothing. Keith is acting like strangers, now, and that hurst Lance more than he'd like to admit.

On the bright side, Lance supposes, he won’t have to see Keith’s dumb mullet anymore. Or his ugly jacket and his pretty purple eyes. Or his perfect pink lips or the way they crave when he smiles. Lance won’t have to smile so wide, and laugh so loud at Keith's dumb, dry jokes anymore. He won’t have to meet up for lunch, or coffee, or froyo. Lance won’t have to order take-out on Fridays to watch dumb anime. Lance won’t have to feel his heart stutter in his chest or his cheeks warm or his breath catch. 

Lance won’t have to see Keith anymore, and Lance couldn’t be happier.

(Because maybe, if Lance keeps saying he’s not hurt, he won’t be.)

Having Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Keith out of Lance’s life, has sort of pulled Keith Kogane back into it. Lance hasn’t thought of class rankings or the Pilot Project Internship for the majority of the semester, but now that Lance isn’t spending most of his time with his Keith, he’s spending most of his time with his books and the fact that despite all the extra studying he’s been doing, Lance still hasn’t managed to claw his way back to the top 20 in ASTRO-104. 

The Pilot Project Internship is looking more, and more, like a pipe dream everyday. It's apparent that studying on his own isn't doing anything, but Lance is definitely too poor to afford a decent tutor. 

So, that’s how Lance finds himself, feeling like utter shit, trying not to get electrocuted as he works on Rover. Even if Lance can’t do shit all in ASTRO-104, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to pull his weight in ENGR-135.

Pidge and Hunk share a look as Lance lets out a small sigh, twisting a pair of wires together, no quip or complaint to be heard.

“Lance,” Pidge finally sighs, “Don’t get me wrong, I love the silence, but are you okay?”

“Seriously man, you’ve been sighing a lot,” Hunk passes a wrench between his hands absently.

“I’m fine,” Lance says, “Really.”

Pidge hums, “I don’t know, you’ve been pretty weird since we smoked.” Pidge pauses to look at Lance, “Wait, did you have a bad trip or something.”

“No, Pidge, I’m fine,” Lance says again, “You don’t trip on weed.”

“I’m just saying,” Pidge throws her hands up in the air in mock surrender, “We’re here for you and if that Rolo dude—”

“Okay, fuck that guy, first of all,” the words are out of Lance’s mouth before he’s even registered he’s said them. 

Because he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been thinking about the possibility of Keith ignoring Lance because of _Rolo_. Keith was probably thinking all about _Rolo_ that night. When Lance and Keith were sharing a pipe, Keith was probably wishing it was _Rolo_ or that when they were walking down the hall Keith was wishing that it was _Rolo_ and that the kiss they shared was with _Rolo_ and that the bed Keith had spent the night in was _Rolo’s_. 

God, fuck that guy.

“Whoa,” Pidge’s teasing smile melts, “The fuck did he do to you?”

Lance sighs again, focusing on the tiny robot in front of him, “Nothing, forget I said anything.”

“Lance, you really shouldn’t bottle things up like this,” Hunk says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Bottling up emotions causes breakouts,” Pidge says, her voice dry, “Now spill.”

Lance sighs, pressing his face into the cool metal of Rover’s outer hull. He bangs his forehead against it once lightly—and only once, more for Rover’s sake than Lance’s own—before he turns to face his gently scowling friends. 

“Keith is ignoring me,” Lance says, his shoulders slumped and his hands by his sides—pitiful.

“Why?” Pidge’s eyebrow shoots up in confusion, “Aren’t you two practically attached at the hip now?”

“I don’t know,” Lance exclaims, suddenly energized my a weird mixture of indignation, hurt and anger. “I don’t know,” Lance repeats, a tad calmer, “All I know is that we had an awesome time last weekend and when I woke up I was alone and Keith hasn’t talked to me since.”

“Did he at least send you streaks?” Hunk asks.

“That’s the worst part, Hunk,” Lance cries, “He killed our fucking streak!” Hunk and Pidge both wince at Lance’s outburst. 

Except Lance knows that, that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that Lance really, _really_ likes Keith, and they _kissed_. They _kissed._ And for Lance, it was awesome; it was amazing; it made his whole fucking heart _sing_. And then Keith had smiled so softly at him. His indigo eyes had shined under the fluorescent lights from the vending machine, and then, later, when they fell into Lance’s bed, Keith had held Lance so tenderly that just thinking about it almost makes Lance want to cry. 

For Lance that night was more than just a kiss with a cute boy. It was a kiss with _Keith._ The guy who loves plain Lays potato chips, but also won’t eat Chinese food unless it’s seven types of spicy. The guy who watches _Pokemon_ with Lance every Friday night in his dorm room, but won’t play PokemonGo. The guy who wears a ridiculous cropped leather jacket and fingerless gloves. The guy who Lance is more than a little bit in love with. 

That’s the worst part. 

The fact that Lance is in love with Keith, and Keith isn’t in love with Lance. 

“I just don’t understand why Keith isn’t talking to me,” Lance sighs, the fight drained out of him, as he rubs the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes. “Like if he made a mistake that’s fine.” Lance drops his arms, “I just want him to talk to me again, you know.”

No one says anything for a moment, Pidge and Hunk both staring at Lance, concerned frowns on their faces. Finally, Pidge says, “Did you check his place? Maybe something happened—”

“Nothing happened to his phone,” Lance sighs, “He liked Allura’s picture on Instagram yesterday and he’s been showing up on snapmaps all over campus. I even went over to his place right after I woke up, just to, you know, say what’s up or whatever, and Shiro answered the door—looking like a fucking Greek God, by the way—with Keith no where to be seen.”

“The gym?” Hunk asks, at the same time Pidge mumbles, “What does how Shiro looks have to do with this?”

“Yeah, I checked the gym; that’s where Shiro said he was,” Lance says, ignoring Pidge, “But he definitely wasn’t there and I looked like a total creep just wondering around,” Lance sighs and crosses his arms, “I’ve tried texting him, I’ve tried calling him, I even sent him a fucking email.”

Lance shoves his head in his hands, “Oh my God, I’m a fucking stalker, no wonder he doesn’t want to fucking talk to me.”

“Whoa, dude slow down, you’re not a stalker,” Hunk says, placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder.

“Well,” Pidge winces, “That actually sounds kind of stalker-ish.”

Lance sends Pidge the saddest look he can muster, while Hunk sends her his most scathing. She just shrugs lightly.

Lance sighs and pulls away from Hunk, “I just never get an answer whenever I try to message him and when I call it goes straight to voicemail.” Lance whips around to face his friends, suddenly angry, “And yesterday, I spent twenty—twenty—full fucking minutes waiting for him to show up for our usual Thursday Morning Coffee/Tea. Fucking wishful thinking he would show up after almost a full fucking week of radio silence.”

Lance sighs, letting his head drop into his hands, “He couldn’t even shoot me a fucking text saying, ‘Hey, sorry I never want to see you again, you gay weirdo.’”

“Lance, I think you being a gay weirdo, is the least of Keith’s problems with you,” Pidge quips.

Lance stares at the concrete floor of the student labs, signing again. “I mean, I guess we _were_ high when we kissed and everything,” Lance mumbles, like he’s afraid to say it out loud. “And I guess him and Rolo had a _thing_ back in high school or whatever.” Lance slumps defeatedly, “Maybe he realized Rolo was b—”

“No,” Hunk cuts Lance off, “Keith doesn’t seem like the type of dude to just make out and spend the night with someone he doesn’t have at least some feelings for.”

“Okay, but, like, what if he kissed me and cuddled me and decided, hmmm, maybe not?” Lance pushes his face out of his hands, flailing a little.

“I—maybe that’s—” Hunk stumbles trying to be supportive. 

“Something I need to seriously consider,” Lance cuts Hunk off, “Like it’s totally possible he was into me maybe a little, but then he sobered up and the haze of weed went away and I suddenly wasn’t as awesome anymore.” Lance huffs, “God, this wouldn’t even be the first time this has happened to me.”

“Okay, buddy slow your roll,” Hunk pushes off the workstation he was leaning against to grab Lance’s shoulders. “Maybe he panicked. Maybe he is into you, but he’s scared. Like he thought you wouldn’t be into him?”

“Hunk—” Lance starts but Hunk cuts him off by pulling him into a hug. 

“No, Lance, right now things don’t look good, but you can’t read his mind, and he can’t read yours, so I think that you guys just need to talk to each other.”

“I need to be able to find him to do that,” Lance mumbles, grumpy, into Hunks shoulder. 

“I’ll try and talk to him,” Pidge says, “He might listen if he’s not so worried about getting rejected.”

“If he talks to you make sure you yell at him for making me wait for twenty minutes yesterday,” Lance says, finally melting into Hunk’s hug.

“Oh trust me, he’ll be getting an earful,” Pidge says, her signature gremlin smirk curling her lips, as she cocks her hips and crossed her arms. Theres something about the way she says that, combined with the way Lance can practically feel the love diffusing into his body from Hunk’s, that just warms Lance completely. 

Lance sighs, a genuine smile curling his lips, “Thanks, guys.”

“No problem,” Hunk says, patting his back.

“Glad to help,” Pidge’s smirk softens slightly, “Now if you wouldn’t mind, could you please connect the red and orange wires on Rover’s upper-left flank?”

Lance groans, a tad-overdramatic as he pulls away from Hunk’s embrace, “I guess."

* * *

**McLame**  
_look keith, idk why ur ignoring me, but if its something i did i’d really like to fix it_

**McLame**  
_okay if you don’t answer me i’m gonna kill u_

**McLame**  
_keith_

**McLame**  
_honestly what the fuck is going on_

* * *

Lance raps on Keith’s door, tapping his foot anxiously as he crosses his arms, waiting. Shiro answers after a few moments.

“Oh, hey, Lance,” Shiro’s holding the door open just enough to see through, effectively blocking Lance’s view of the inside of the room. 

“Is Keith here?” Lance manages to keep his voice level against the anger and the hurt churning in his chest.

Shiro stands in the doorway, his smile melting off his face, “Uh, sorry Lance—”

“Shiro, I know he’s in there,” Lance sighs, “Look I just want to talk to him, okay? He just fucking cut me off and I want to know why.”

Shiro’s face melts a little more. He glances over his shoulder and steps out into the hall, closing the door behind him. “Lance, I don’t know what happened between you guys, but I think maybe you should give him some space.”

And Lance doesn’t really know why, but that pisses him off. It blows the fuse right off of Lance’s already fraying nerves sending him from highly stressed and low-key annoyed, to straight up pissed off and ready to kill a bitch.

“Shiro, I have been giving him nothing _but_ space. I don’t even _know_ what the fuck I did. So, if you would be so kind as to get the fuck out of my way and let me talk to someone who I _thought_ was my friend, that would be awesome.” Lance spits the words at Shiro, anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Shiro raises his hands, palms forward, “Whoa, there cowboy, cool it down for a second.” Shiro’s eyebrows are knitted, “I understand that Keith can be pretty frustrating sometimes, but you just have to let him cool down—”

The door to Keith and Shiro’s room opens, Keith scowling on the other side. Lance realizes then, that a week without seeing Keith is too damn long, because just seeing him in the flesh—with his stupid perfect mullet, and his ridiculous cherry red, cropped leather jacket, and his beautiful indigo eyes—is enough to sooth Lance’s nerves enough to bring him down from a ten to approximately a seven-and-a-half. 

“Shiro, it’s fine,” Keith says, and Lance somehow forgot how even Keith’s tight, stiff, angry voice sounds perfect to him. 

Shiro raises his eyebrows, his arms crossing over his broad chest as he sends this searching look to Keith. Keith nods his head stiffly once and then Shiro stuffs his hands into his pockets and says, “Alright, play nice then,” and walks down the hall, away from the two boys. “Text me when I can come back,” Shiro calls before he disappears around a corner. 

That’s when Lance finally takes a good hard look at Keith. It’s the first time he’s seen him since they smoked, and while then, Keith was all soft smiles and tired, subdued giggles, now, he’s all hard lines and dark, furrowed brows. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest and there are dark smudges under his eyes. He’s scowling, but instead of looking intimidating, he just looks tired. 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, and this doesn’t annoy Lance so much as it makes him feel sad, and distant, and inadequate. 

So, Lance looks away, letting out a soft, hurt ‘tsk’ before saying, “Are you going to say something to me, or am I going to get the silent treatment in person, too?” 

Keith sighs, “Lance just—fuck—just come inside.” Then Keith pushes open the door behind him and Lance follows him into the room. 

“Look, Keith, if this whole radio silence thing is because of the kiss—” Lance starts but Keith cuts him off.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, right?” Keith rushes out, a panicked look on his face, his chest heaving.

And Lance’s heart sinks. He knew it. He fucking knew it. Keith liked him that night, and then they kissed, and they cuddled and then the weed wore off and Keith realized that Lance was better in theory than in practice and now he’s trying to let Lance down as gently as he can. 

So, Lance just heaves a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and plasters a smile on his face, “You stole the words right outta my mouth.” Lance tries to sound normal, but he knows he sounds sad. He has ears. He knows what a sad person sounds like. And unfortunately all he’s hearing from himself is that.

Keith sighs back, his shoulders drooping and something like relief mixed with something else slides over Keith’s face. “Right, cool awesome,” Keith rubs his hands down his face, “I’ve never gotten high before the other night, so like, I just—”

“I get it buddy,” Lance clasps Keith on the shoulder, “Sometimes weird shit happens when you're high.” Lance lets out a chuckle, more then a little fake, “I mean, I kissed you back, so. Whatever.”

Keith stares at Lance for a moment, his dark purple eyes searching for something that Lance probably doesn’t have. “Right,” Keith says, his eyes boring into Lance’s, “Whatever,” and he shakes Lance’s hand off his shoulder and turns away. Lance tries not to let that get to him. 

It gets to him. 

* * *

**McLame**  
_hey just to clarify. we’re cool right?_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Yeah_

**McLame**  
_okay cool because i just bought Lego: Batman and like i really wanna watch it_

**McLame**  
_but like not alone_

**McLame**  
_also its friday_

**McLame**  
_????_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Yea, I’ll watch Lego: Batman with you._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Do you want Chinese, burgers or pizza tonight?_

**McLame**  
_NICE!_

**McLame**  
_borger_

* * *

After that, things kind of go back to normal. They have Mid-Monday Milkshakes (lactose-free chocolate for Keith and strawberry swirl for Lance), Tuesday morning Tea (Green tea with honey and lemon for Keith and Chai tea with steamed milk and extra cinnamon for Lance), Wild Card Wednesday (they alternate who picks lunch every week as they both have a bunch of time off around noon-ish), Thursday morning Coffee/Tea (Keith hates coffee so he always gets Green tea with honey and lemon, and Lance gets a hazelnut coffee with cane sugar and hazelnut cream), Friday afternoon Froyo before they order takeout and watch shitty anime together until one or both of them fall asleep on the floor. 

It’s all back to the way things were, except Lance keeps catching himself staring at the way Keith’s hair catches the light, and the way his eyes twinkle when he laughs, and the way his eyebrows furrow when he scowls. Lance keeps noticing the way, Keith’s pink lips curl, and the way he chews on the chapped skin at the seam of his lips instead of using chapstick like normal, functional human being. 

And every time Lance catches himself staring, he finds himself remembering the way those chapped, dry, bitten lips, felt against his. How they were warm and firm and how the salt from the chips Keith had been eating, transferred to Lance’s lips. How Keith’s hair had felt as he ran his fingers through it, how Keith had cupped Lance’s jaw and how Lance wishes he would do it again. 

Needless to say, Lance is basically in Hell™.

And to add insult to injury, there’s only one month left in the semester, and Lance has only just managed to claw his way to 21st place in ASTRO-104. The Galaxy Garrison’s Pilot Project is just within reach and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get this fucking position. So, because Lance is friends with two very smart people and lives with one of them, Lance decides to propose a solution. 

Pidge could tutor Lance. 

* * *

“Pidge,” Lance says as he plops into the chair seated next to her. She’s sitting alone at a small secluded table on the third floor of the library, large textbooks cracked open, sticky notes stuck haphazardly to every available surface; it looks like someone set off a bomb filled with office supplies in here. “Do you know how hard it was to find you in here?”

“I do it to stay away from annoyances,” she says, not looking up at Lance from her computer screen, “And yet, you still somehow managed to find me.”

Lance lets out a squawk of indignation, and he may or may not sputter a bit before saying, “Um, rude.” Pidge just shrugs, and Lance clicks his tongue. 

“Anyway, I have something to ask you,” Lance picks up a pile of unused sticky notes and absently fidgets with them.

“No,” Pidge says, before Lance even says anything.

Lance plops the sticky notes back on the table, “You haven't even heard what I have to say,” he whines. 

“I know that I don't have time for whatever favour you want from me,” Pidge presses the save button at least 30 times before she turns to finally look at Lance. 

“I thought I was your favourite blue boy! I thought you always had time for me!” Lance turns to face her completely.

“You’re so dramatic,” Pidge rolls her eyes, “There’s one (1) month until finals; I don’t even have time to breathe, let alone help my favourite blue boy.”

“Listen, I need a tutor and I thought you might know someone,” Lance says, “Or you know, help me yourself.” Lance says the second part quieter; more to himself than to her. 

Pidge pauses, “Do you actually want my help or do you want a tutor without having to pay?”

Lance shrugs sheepishly, “I don’t know,” he mumbles, before sighing, “A little bit of both, if I’m being honest.”

Pidge sighs, long and hard, “Look Lance, I appreciate the honesty, and the fact that you came to me for this is super sweet, but I honestly don’t think I’d be able to help you properly,” Lance deflates a little at her words. “I’m seriously not the teaching type.”

“So I guess I’m condemned to the registered tutors,” Lance says with resignation.

“You could ask Hunk,” Pidge suggests.

“We’ve both got part time jobs and he has a girlfriend, and he’s doing a double major,” Lance sighs, “I barely see him as it is, and I don’t want to take up what little time we do have to hang out, with school work.”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Pidge sighs, letting her shoulders droop. 

“So, that’s sort of why I came to you. I mean, I get you’re super busy too, but…” Lance trails off.

“But Hunk’s way busier,” Pidge finishes, “I get that,” she shrugs a shoulder. “Why do you need a tutor anyway? You’re pretty smart.”

“Awe, Pidge, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” Lance leans into the table, placing a hand over his heart. She has warmed him to his very core this eve. “But for real,” he sobers, “I need to destroy Keith Kogane and stay in the top 20 of ASTRO-104 or I won't get that super awesome internship at the Galaxy Garrison.”

“So, you need to be tutored for ASTRO-104?” Pidge asks, this weird, sly look on her face; she's plotting something and Lance definitely doesn't think he’s going to like it. 

“Yes, I need a tutor, because if Keith Kogane gets that fucking internship and I don’t I’m gonna McFreaking Loose It. And what’s with that look? You know I don't like that look. That's your Make Lance Miserable™ look,” Lance crosses his arms. 

“Okay, you and I both know that my Make Lance Miserable™ look is way different from the look I'm making,” Pidge rolls her eyes, “But I can get you a tutor for ASTRO-104. I know just the guy. He's super smart, totally chill, completely your type.”

“Pidge, you gremlin, I swear—” Lance narrows his eyes at her. 

“I'm not plotting, I promise. I'm doing you a favour like the good friend I am,” Pidge smiles and shrugs, “Now shoo, I have a 12 page lab report due tomorrow.”

“Yikes, good fuckin’ luck, buddy,” and with that gem of a line, Lance ruffles PIdge’s hair, and make his retreat, not exactly sure how to feel about that encounter. 

* * *

**Pidgeotto**  
_Hey I got you a tutor. Meet him in the library tomorrow around 4:40, second floor, he’ll be wearing red and has black hair._

**Lancelot**  
_BLESS YOU PIDGE_

**Lancelot**  
_YOURE THE HECKIN BEST_

**Pidgeotto**  
_i know bb_

* * *

The sky is a dark, unforgiving mess of grey, broody clouds when Lance steps out of the building his last class is in. The clouds look like they could crack open at any second, pelting rain droplets like bullets on unsuspecting students. The pedway that connects the science and math building to the library is currently closed for construction, so Lance decides to just book it. If he runs, he'll lessen the time he’s outside, and then therefore the probability of whether he gets rained on or not, decreases. 

That’s how probability works, right? 

Just as Lance starts climbing the steps to the library’s main entrance, it starts _pouring_. With a little shout (that may, or may not, have been a screech) Lance somehow makes himself go faster, throwing the doors to the library open and ducking in before he can get too wet.

Lance watches, with maybe a tad too much satisfaction, as sheets of rain assault a few poor students who weren’t fast enough to make it to shelter. Ha, suckers. 

Turning his attention inside, Lance scans his eyes over the people milling around the first floor. He’s supposed to be looking for a dude with black hair wearing red. Lance belatedly realizes that, that doesn't narrow anything down. If Pidge ever witnessed a crime, the detectives and prosecution team better hope they have other witnesses because she would make a terrible sole witness. There’s like six dudes here that have black hair and are wearing red. 

Lance sighs lightly, righting his backpack on his shoulders, before heading towards the stairs, hoping there’ll only be one dude with black hair wearing red up there.

As soon as Lance can, he peaks his head up and starts looking. His eyes catch on a familiar face: Keith is sitting at one of the tables, twirling a pencil between his fingers, looking insanely bored. Keith must be studying. Quickly, Lance scans his eyes over the rest of the floor, checking for his tutor, but not seeing him. Whatever, he’s probably late. Time to go bug Keith.

“Hey, Keith, fancy meeting you here,” Lance says as he takes the seat opposite him.

Keith stops twirling his pencil to level a dry look at Lance, “This is a public library at a school we both go to.”

“And isn’t it serendipitous that we’re both here, at the same time?” Lance asks, pulling out the dramatics.

Keith rolls his eyes as he opens the textbook in front of him, “Whatever loser, you ready to get tutored?”

“Wait, what?” Lance knows he didn’t tell Keith about his school problems; they never talk about school. The only person who knows is Pidge, and why would she tell Keith that Lance needed tutoring?

“Pidge asked me if I could tutor you in ASTRO-104. Which by the way, why didn’t you just ask me yourself?” Keith is still talking, but Lance isn’t listening anymore. This Keith isn’t in ASTRO-104, Lance would have noticed. He can’t be—

“What’s your last name?” Lance blurts without thinking, needing the answer to not be the one he knows it is.

“Kogane,” Keith says like he didn't just forcefully ram two very different ideas of two very different people together into one person, drastically messing with Lance’s worldview. “Why?” he asks, but Lance isn’t listening. 

Lance isn’t listening. Lance is instead, pushing up out of his chair, mumbling, “I’ve got to go,” under his breath before booking it back down the stairs and outside, not caring about the rain.

Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Keith, the guy who Lance has sort-of, kind-of, maybe started to have more than platonic feelings for, and Keith _fucking_ Kogane, the guy that is the literal _fucking worst_ , are the same person. Lance’s crush and his mortal enemy are the same person and Lance is a fucking idiot.

And this total fuckery feels like another inevitability sent to ruin his life. 

* * *

Lance realizes—about halfway to the dorms, as he’s soaking wet and only getting wetter—that Pidge set this up, which means Pidge _knew_. Pidge knew and kept it from him. Lance has been complaining about Keith Kogane for _months_ to her, while also swooning over Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda. She’s listened to Lance agonize over them for _months_ and this whole time, not once did she think Lance would appreciate her mentioning that _they’re the same person._

God, Lance feels like such an idiot! Okay, sure, in Lance’s heart-of-hearts he sort of knew. He kind of always knew since the moment Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda said his name was Keith that he was Keith Kogane. Lance kind of knew, but _fuck._ How can one man be so dumb? And by one man Lance means _himself._

God, how long has Pidge known and not told him? _Why_ didn't Pidge tell him? Was her not telling Lance just some elaborate prank? A real knee slapper this one is. Lance just can’t stop laughing at this one, Pidge, thanks for keeping him on his toes.

(Lance doesn’t even really know why he’s so mad. It’s not like Keith as a person has changed. Lance doesn’t even know why this is a big deal for him, but he feels like his world has unbalanced itself and he doesn’t even know why.)

* * *

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Lance where are you?_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Are you okay?_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_What the heck answer me._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_What happened?_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_You’re going to melt. It’s raining._

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Lance seriously what the shit_

* * *

**Lancelot**  
_Pidge I swear tp god if ur in the room whrn i get thrr I’m goin 2 kil u_

**Pideotto**  
_So you found out_

**Lancelot**  
_y didnt u tel me_

**Pidgeotto**  
_I can’t tell you if I'm dead_

**Lancelot**  
_i hate u_

* * *

**Lance**  
_r u home rn_

**Hunk Daddy**  
_Yeah, what’s up?_

**Lance**  
_can i come over_

**Hunk Daddy**  
_Sure!_

**Hunk Daddy**  
_U ok?_

**Lance**  
_no._

**Lance**  
_idk_

**Lance**  
_im juts dumb_

* * *

Hunk has the door open for Lance before he even knocks—like his Sad Lance Sense is tingling or something. Hunk’s got this soft concerned look on his face that only worsens when he gets a good look at how soaking wet Lance is. Lance can’t even feel bad for making Hunk worry because of how fucking cold he is. 

“Lance,” Hunk sighs, “What happened, buddy?”

“It’s raining,” Lance shrugs and steps passed Hunk and into his apartment.

“Where's your coat?” Hunk follows after him, closing the door with a click.

Lance just shrugs, “Can I steal a shower?” he mumbles, toeing off his soaked shoes, his socks not far behind. 

“Of course, man,” Hunk places a warm hand on Lance’s icy shoulder, “I’ll get you a change of clothes ready and throw those ones in the dryer downstairs.”

A ball of warmth blooms in Lance’s chest, “You’re the best, best friend a guy could ask for.”

Hunk squeezes Lance’s shoulder, a crooked smile slotting into place, “I wouldn’t say that so soon. You’re not leaving until I get an explanation.”

Lance’s gut drops, a sigh leaving him, “Right, yeah, just,” Lance drags a hand down his face, “I need to warm up first.”

“Right, yeah,” Hunk says, squeezing Lance’s shoulder once more before pushing him in the direction of the bathroom. Lance nods and slops his way over. 

“I’ll, um,” Lance sniffs, the cold really getting to him, “I’ll just leave my clothes on the counter. You can come in or whatever.”

“Sure,” Hunk says, and it’s weird because things haven’t ever been weird around Hunk before and Lance doesn’t know what to do about the stiff tension in the air between them. “I’ll leave a change on the counter for you.”

Lance pauses with his hand on the door to the bathroom, “Thanks,” he says, shooting a glance at Hunk before ducking inside.

Lance hops in the shower as quickly as possible. He’s freezing, and just really, really wants to vent to his best friend. Today has not been one of Lance’s greatest.

After Lance has warmed up and slipped into a change of clothes, he makes his way back into the kitchen just as Hunk is pulling a pan of nachos from the oven, filling the air with the warm, heavy smell of melting cheese and taco seasoning. Hunk glances up, a concerned smile breaking over his face 

“Hey, buddy,” Hunk plops his oven mitts on the counter, “How was your shower? Feeling any better?”

Lance takes a moment, paused in the threshold of the kitchen, tugging on the ends of the towel draped across his shoulders. Lance clears his throat, “Yeah,” he shrugs, “At least I’m not dying from hypothermia anymore, so there’s that.”

Hunk chuckles a little at that, “I suppose that’s a plus, hey?”

“Yeah,” Lance clears his throat, moving into the kitchen, taking a seat at one of the stools tucked under Hunk’s counter. After a few quiet moments where Hunk turns off the oven and puts away the oven mitts, Lance says, “Hunk, how do I stop being a dramatic idiot?”

Hunk turns all the way around to face Lance from where he was grabbing some paper plates form the cupboard. Hunk smiles gently, “I don’t think that one’s possible, buddy.”

Lance feels something painful twist in his chest, “Right,” Lance’s voice is hard, and Hunk’s eyebrows crash together, concerned and apologetic.

“You know I don’t mean that in a bad way right?” Hunk takes a step forward, “You know that all of us—me, Pidge, Keith and probably even Shiro and Allura—love that about you, right?”

Lance doesn’t really know or understand what sets him off, but there’s just something about what Hunk said that just rubs him the wrong way; just makes him so angry. Because maybe, for just once in his life, Lance would like to be taken seriously.

“Sure, Hunk,” Lance says, entirely unconvincing, “I get it, I’m the funny overdramatic jokes guy,” Lance forces out a stiff laugh, “Always sunny in Doucheville, right?”

“Whoa, Lance, buddy, what’s going on?” Hunk is leaning up against the counter now, his eyebrows so furrowed in concern they’re almost the same eyebrow at this point.

And Lance sighs, the anger leeched out of him, as his shoulders slump. “Nothing,” Lance sighs, flopping a hand weakly onto the counter top, “I just—fuck man, I just found out that Keith Kogane and Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Keith are the same person and then proceeded to freak out and run here in the rain like a fucking angst-ridden teenager in a bad indie flick.”

Hunk sighs lightly, his face melting with sympathy, “Buddy.” 

“Yeah,” Lance says, grabbing a nacho off the pan and sticking the whole thing in his mouth. “I just—I don’t know,” Lance says around a mouthful of nacho, “I wish I wasn’t so dumb and dramatic all the time. Like, how am I supposed to explain this whole episode to Keith?” 

“You could just tell him,” Hunk says, grabbing a nacho as well. 

“Oh yeah, because that would go over so well,” Lance rolls his eyes, “Hey Keith, yeah, you know how I ditched you at my tutoring session the other day? Yeah? Well that was because I thought you were two different people and I hated one of them.”

“Okay, maybe don’t say it like that,” Hunk relaxes into the counter, leaning on and elbow near the nacho pan, his feet crossed at his ankles. Lance sends Hunk a look clearly saying ‘ _Then how should I say it, genius?_ ’ and Hunk huffs. “Look, I think you know it’s not really a big deal. I mean, you do weird stuff all the time, and he’s kind of a blunt asshole sometimes. You both know these things about each other, and you both still like to hang out with each other.”

Lance sighs, grabbing another nacho and crunching into it. “You’re right Hunk, I just,” Lance sighs again, “I just spent almost a full semester hating someone who I didn’t know I was sort of in love with, so I guess I’m having a little trouble reconciling the two ideas in my brain.”

“And that’s fine,” Hunk says, “Take your time. Just don’t take it out on Keith. He didn’t know.”

Lance sighs, “Yeah, okay.” Lance shakes his head, still feeling off-centred. Hunk is right; Keith doesn’t deserve the silent treatment because Lance created an evil alter-ego for him. That being said though, Lance isn’t quite ready to face Keith just yet, but a text Lance could definitely do.

* * *

**McLame**  
_hey, keith, i’m sorry that i randomly bounced on you_

**McLame**  
_something came up_

**McLame**  
_rain check????_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_is everything okay??_

**McLame**  
_yea just some random personal shit_

**McLame**  
_everything’s cool_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_okay_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_cool_

**Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_yeah, i’ll take a rain check_

**McLame**  
_cool_

**McLame**  
_awesome_

* * *

Lance doesn’t make it back to his own dorm until after classes the next day, having stayed the night at Hunk’s apartment. Since Lance talked to (read: texted) Keith, he’s not as angry at Pidge anymore. Not that Lance isn’t still pissed, he’s just not livid anymore.   
****

Basically, he’s ready to see Pidge and not murder her.

Lance pushes open the door, dropping his books and bag onto the floor just inside. When he looks up, Pidge is perched on her desk chair, a strange look that’s 60% concern, 20% fear and 20% amusement on her face.

“Pidge, what the fuck,” is all Lance says, his shoulders slumping, “Why couldn’t you just tell me like a normal person?”

“Lance,” Pidge sighs, “You know I live for drama.”

“Yeah, and you’re fucking killing me,” Lance rolls his eyes and steps fully into the room, plopping down on his unmade bed. 

“Plus I thought it would be easier this way,” Pidge shrugs, “If I would have told you, like a normal person, you wouldn’t have believed me and then you would have gotten double angry at me, so really,” Pidge sends Lance a dry look, “This was the best possible outcome.”

Lance sighs, letting his arms slip to the sides of his body and hang limply off the edge of his bed, “I hate that you’re kind of right,” Lance turns his head to look at Pidge, “How long have you known anyway?”

Pidge suddenly looks sheepish and Lance knows he’s not going to like the answer, whatever it is. Pidge looks away from Lance, rubbing the back of her neck absently, “A couple of months,” she mumbles.

Lance sits up, “A couple of _months_?” 

“Yeah,” Pidge winces through a nod.

“Fuck, Pidge,” Lance runs a hand through his own hair, “I’ve been ranting about Keith as  two separate people for _months._ And you’ve known for _months_.”

“Okay, I see your point, but again, if I told you, you would have freaked out twice as much,” Pidge tries her best to placate. 

“Pidge, you just let me embarrass myself for months,” Lance stresses, kind of upset, but not freaking out.

“Okay, Lance, you and I both know you do that anyway,” Pidge quips.

“Okay, rude, and fuck you, first of all,” Lance says, no real heat behind his words, “And second, any of those times I was complaining about him would have been a nice time to fucking tell me.”

Pidge sighs, “Look, Lance, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but now you know and you can get help from not only the best dude in your class, but also the dude you’re not-so-subtly crushing on.”

And although Pidge is right, Lance still isn’t ready to face Keith, except now it’s more because of embarrassment then any sort of mental reconciliation that needed to happen. 

"Oh my god," Lance groans, "You fucking suck.” Lance flops back onto his bed, "Whatever, you're forgiven." Pidge doesn't say anything in response, but she does send Lance a relieved smile.

* * *

Despite talking with Pidge and Hunk, and texting Keith, Lance is still pretty shook about the whole Keith Kogane/Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda being the same dude thing and just the thought of spending prolonged amounts of time alone with Keith right now, fills Lance with an immeasurable amount of embarrassment. 

Because _come on_ who does that? Who just creates an entire enemy around a _name_? And then who fucking falls kind-of-sort-of in love with him? 

Lance that’s who, and it’s just so embarrassing that Lance feels like if he tried to take Keith up on studying now, he would probably have an aneurism and he would melt into a horrifying, goopy, embarrassed mess right in front of him.

And Lance can take a lot of embarrassment, but he’s drawing the line on this one. 

So, now that getting tutored isn’t really an option, Lance has resigned himself to 21st place in ASTRO-104. 

That being said though, Lance isn’t giving up on the Pilot Project. Just because he doesn’t have a confirmed spot doesn’t mean he still can’t apply and at least try to get in. So, that’s how Lance finds himself knocking on the door of his professor’s office, a hesitant smile on his face. 

“Hey, Coran, do you have a minute?” Lance peeks into the office, the man sitting inside looking up from the stack of papers in front of him. 

“Lance, my boy!” Coran’s face lights up, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “Of course, come on in.”

Lance ducks inside, a smile fighting into his face, the older man’s cheerfulness contagious. “Thanks, Coran.”

“Sure, take a seat,” Coran gestures to the seat in front of him, and Lance sits, “What can I do for you, Lance?”

“Well,” Lance rubs the back of his neck, “I was just wondering if there’s any way to apply to the Pilot Project internship without being in the top 20 of ASTRO-104? I just mean, with the way my marks are right now, and with the current rankings what they are, I really don’t think I’ll be able to bump my way up, but like, I this internship is kind of a dream, you know?”

“Yeah,” Coran hummus thoughtfully, his cheerful smile melting as he strokes his moustache, “I mean, of course you can apply, I’ll send you the forms to fill out, but without being in the rankings, it’s almost impossible to get in.”

Lance’s heart sinks. Of course it’s impossible to get into without the rankings. Because why would Lance’s life ever be easy. 

“That being said, Lance,” Coran starts, his voice warming, “I will write you a reference letter. Hopefully that will help your chances a bit.”

Lance’s heart leaps, “Thanks so much, Coran, that really means a lot to me.”

“No worries, my boy!” Coran’s fledgeling smile blooms into his signature grin, directed full force at Lance. Coran stands up and Lance follows, “I’ll email you the documents, but Lance.”

“Yeah,” Lance pauses. 

“If you don’t get in this year, I do offer the same program in my 200 level course,” Coran’s voice is warm, and Lane doesn’t know if he feels better or worse that Coran is telling him this. So, Lance just nods, sending a smile at Coran before ducking back out the office door. 

* * *

“So,” Keith starts, stirring his iced tea absently, the ice clinking together inside the plastic cup. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Lance winces because he knows he’s been avoiding Keith since he found out Keith Kogane and Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda Keith were the same person. Lance doesn’t mean it in a facetious way or anything, it’s just that whenever Lance sees Keith, he also sees himself running out of the library like a complete nut-case. He sees himself ranting for hour about the same person as if they’re two different people. He sees himself hating someone for no freaking reason, and then falling in love with him, _by accident_. Lance sees Keith and he’s suddenly reminded of all the seemingly life-ending amounts of embarrassment he’s put himself through and—fuck there’s just only so much someone can take, you know?

“Sorry about that,” Lance rubs the back of his neck, looking away from Keith, “Finals are really kicking my ass.”

“Yeah,” Keith clears his throat, “Same.” Keith pauses and _fuck_ things are super awkward; the tension so thick it’s almost shining visibly in the air.

“Are you still struggling with ASTRO-104?” Keith ventures after a few moments of tense silence.

Lance winces again. Not really a topic Lance is super hot on discussing, but alas. “Um, I don’t know,” Lance shrugs, “I really wanted that Galaxy Garrison internship, but I just don’t have the grades to be in the top twenty, and the final isn’t gonna raise my mark enough to bump me.” Lance sighs lightly, “Coran helped me with my independent submission, and I guess he offers the same internship opportunities for the 200-level students, so I can always try again next year.”

Keith furrows his brows, a little crease forming there, “Is that why you’ve been so weird lately?” Keith pauses, “Why you freaked out at the library the other day?”

"Like, the whole internship thing?" Lance asks.

"Yeah," Keith clears his throat lightly, and glances down at his tea.

Lance sighs, closing his eyes against the remembered embarrassment. “Okay, Keith, I’m gonna tell you something and it’s really embarrassing and I really need you to not laugh or get mad at me.”

“I’ll really try my best,” Keith says back, his worried crease deepening.

Lance sighs again, looking at the scuffed table in front of him, “Okay, so, bear with me on this one,” Lance takes another deep breath and starts, “For the entire semester, I definitely thought you and Keith Kogane from ASTRO-104 were different people, and before you say anything, I know that’s really dumb, but—I don’t know—I’m really dumb?” Lance pauses and shakes his head, rambling. “So, I kind of, like, built up this entire idea of who Keith Kogane from ASTRO-104 was and I started a completely made-up rivalry with him in my brain, and then I started hating him. I was blaming him for me not getting the Pilot Project internship, all because he—you—whatever—interrupted me one time in one class at the beginning of the semester.”

“Lance—” Keith tries, but Lance can’t stop, the words are just pouring out of his mouth. 

“And all while I was hating on ASTRO-104 Keith Kogane, I was getting closer to you. We were hanging out all the time and, like, sure your name was Keith just like my made-up rival, but like I didn’t think you could be Keith Kogane just because you’re vaguely asian and Kogane sounds kinda asian—”

“Lance—” Keith presses this time, with slightly more emphasis. 

“And now I consider you one of my best friends. And so like, when you ended up being Keith Kogane, my entire world flipped upside-down and I kinda just…freaked out.” Lance sighs heavily, letting his rant die as he flops a hand onto the table between them.

Keith lets out a small, amused and exasperated chortle, a fond smile curling his lips, “So, let me get this straight,” he leans onto his arm resting on the table, “You thought I was two people and you hated one of them?”

Lance just gives a little shrug, helpless and unsure. 

Keith gently kicks Lance under the table—more like a knock than a kick really—then huffs out another fond laugh, “You’re such a drama queen.”

Lance rolls his eyes, a pressure lifting off his chest a little, “I’m actually _the_ Drama Queen, so please.”

Keith rolls his eyes again, his soft smile warming his usually sharp features, as he says, “You’re right, I’m sorry your Highness.” 

Lance is struck then, with how much he missed Keith. Keith didn’t really go anywhere, but Lance had been purposefully avoiding him, and, well, Lance missed him; missed this easy banter and Keith’s soft smiles and his shining indigo eyes. 

Keith’s fond look dissipates, leaving a more serious look behind, “Hey, Lance?” Keith’s voice is sobered and a little unsure.

“Yeah,” Lance’s smile melts off his face at the tone.

“You don’t hate me anymore, right?” Keith nervously rubs his thumb on his index finger, his hand curled into a fist. 

Lance’s mouth quirks up, lopsidedly, “No, mullet,” Lance’s voice dips into something resembling almost tender, “I don’t hate you.”

Keith’s lips quirk up, and he looks away from Lance, a flush blooming across the bridge of his nose. “Mullet?”

“Yeah, I’m tryin’ it out,” Lance can’t tear his eyes away from Keith’s face, and the pleased smile that he’s trying to quell, “Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda takes too long to say.”

“I’m not a fan,” Keith glances at Lance, fighting back his smile.

“No?” Lance tilts his head, a pleased smile curling his lips. 

“No,” Keith finally turns the full force of his smile on Lance, and honestly, Lance didn’t really need the breath in his lungs anyway. 

* * *

A knock on the open doorframe startles Lance into bumping his head off the top shelf of his closet, his absentminded humming stopping abruptly with a hiss of pain. 

“Shit,” Lance backs out of his closet, rubbing his head to see Keith trying—and failing—to hold back a smile. “Hey,” Lance feels himself straighten a little bit, a bittersweet ball of warmth blooming in his chest. 

“Hey,” Keith says back, letting a softer smile claim his face, “I’m just on my way out, thought I’d stop by.”

“Yeah,” Lance nods jerkily, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite their make up over the whole Keith Kogane/Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda thing, they really haven’t seen much of each other. Between finishing assignments at the last possible minute and desperately cramming for exams Lance was definitely not prepared for, they haven’t really had time to just hang out. 

And now that it’s clear that Keith is leaving—that Lance won’t see him every other day for the next four-ish months—Lance doesn’t know what to do. 

He’s never been great with good-byes, and it’s pretty clear that this is what this is. 

Lance clears his throat, “Do you need some help carrying bags or whatever?”

“Nah,” Keith shakes his head, and lifts the backpack on his shoulder a little higher, “Just this left and I’m free from here. Shiro helped me out earlier.”

Right. Shiro helped him out. 

Lance nods his head, “Right,” Lance clears his throat again. It’s never been weird talking to Keith, and right now, Lance feels like the most awkward man alive. “Did you get that internship?”

“No,” Keith kind of shrugs a weird smile on his face, “I kinda bombed the final.”

“What?” Lance raises an eyebrow, “You would’ve had to completely shit the bed on that exam to have missed out on the Pilot Project.”

Keith just kind of shrugs again, this weird, foreign sort of self-deprecating smile on his face. “I don’t know what happened. I just opened the exam and blanked. It was like I’d never gone to a single class.”

Lance furrows his brows, “Shit, dawg, that sucks,” Lance crosses his arms, “Did you at least manage to pass?”

“Oh yeah,” Keith shrugs, “I finished in 21st still, so overall, not bad, I guess.” Keith pauses and looks at Lance expectantly, “How about you? Did you make it?”

Lance sucks a breath through his teeth, “Looks like you beat me again, Mullet.”

Keith’s face crumples, his eyebrows crashing together and his hesitant smile burning into a frown. “Wait, what?”

“I finished in 23rd,” Lance gives a little shrug, the sting of losing the Pilot Project still a little too fresh. “I guess someone just freaking aced that test.”

“Wait, so you didn’t get the internship? Even with all of your extra credit and extra studying, you still didn’t get it?” Keith presses, and Lance feels his heart pull.

“Yeah, Keith,” Lance sighs, “Even with all the extra shit, I still wasn’t good enough, no need to remind me.”

Keith looks like he’s been slapped; his face pale and his eyes wide as he stares at Lance for a few moments. Keith clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “That’s dumb. You deserve that internship more than anyone.”

A little of Lance’s annoyance melts at this, but he still can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes as he says, “Tell that to the Garrison.”

Keith clicks his tongue again, “Their loss honestly.” Lance nods, but doesn’t really know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. “So,” Keith yanks a little on the strap of his backpack, “How’d Rover do?”

Lance feels himself get lighter, “We got an A!” Lance freaking loves that little guy. Like sure, Hunk and Pidge pretty much carried that project, but, like, Lance totally helped, and seeing Rover puttz around, completing tasks and generally being the cutest freaking robot _ever_ , makes Lance super happy. 

Keith’s mouth lifts up in a half-amused smile. “That’s awesome! You’ll have—”

“Keith,” a voice cuts Keith off mid sentence, the smile falling from his lips and he turns over his shoulder at his name. 

“There you are. I thought you’d run away or something,” Shiro steps up beside Keith in the doorway, a bright smile on his face as he elbows Keith in the ribs.

Keith dodges out of the way, “Just stopped to say goodbye, but with the 5-hour flight ahead of me, I’d gladly run away.”

“5-hours?” Lance asks, “Where’re you going?”

“Back to Texas,” Keith shrugs, “My dad bought a farm a few years back and asked me to come back to help out with the cows.”

“Cool,” Lance says, nodding. Now that Shiro’s here, Keith is probably going to head out and Lance—Lance desperately doesn’t want him to go. So he says, “Dairy or beef?”

“Beef,” Keith shrugs one shoulder, “Why?”

“My uncle has a dairy farm back in Cuba,” Lance stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, “That being said, you are lactose intolerant.”

Keith rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, “I can milk cows, dumbass, I just can’t drink it.”

“Right,” Lance clears his throat, “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Shiro says after a moment, “You’ve got a plane to catch, Keith.” Shiro pats Keith on the back, “I’ll meet you in the car.”

“Sure,” Keith nods after him. Then Shiro is gone again and it’s just Lance and Keith and the air is tight and awkward and stale between them. Lance doesn’t want to say goodbye. He doesn’t want Keith to go to Texas. He doesn’t want to go home to Cuba. Lance doesn’t want to say goodbye. He wants to stay with Keith, in their little bubble forever. 

But that’s the thing about inevitabilities. They’ll happen whether you want them to or not. And by standing still, you get farther away from where you wanna be. 

Lance watches it happen in slow motion:

They’re standing opposite each other, their eyes meeting in the middle. Lance’s arms are by his sides, heavy and Keith’s are crossed over his chest, tight. Keith sighs and looks away, shaking his head, and then he pushes off the doorframe, sending Lance a wave. 

“See you later, Lance,” his voice like a sigh.

Lance hears himself say, “Later, Keith,” and a small smile twitches the corner of Keith’s mouth. He nods his head, and turns around and then he’s gone, his backpack disappearing down the hall. 

And then time speeds up. 

* * *

And for the whole summer, Lance can’t stop noticing time.

Like the way that when Lance is texting Keith, time seems to fly by; hours passing without notice while they message each other. Or the way that when Lance finds his phone silent—when Keith is busy or sleeping, or just unable to answer—time moves like frozen molasses. Minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days.

Time just goes so slowly without Keith.

It makes Lance think maybe time works different when you’re missing someone. Like how his mom has her phone glued to her hip when her and Lance’s dad are separated, versus how his mom’s phone lays forgotten on the kitchen counter when they’re together. Like how the summer after Lance’s sister, Veronica, met her wife, Tabitha, all Veronica did was giggle at her phone and sigh at the sun. 

Like how Lance is now, laying alone on the sand, listening to his cousins, nieces and nephews play in the surf, his phone resting on the towel near his head. 

“You’re lazy this summer,” Veronica says, dropping onto the sand next to where Lance is laying. 

“I am sunbathing,” Lance says, keeping his eyes closed, “I just spent the last eight months getting my ass kicked by school only to lose the internship of my dreams. Let me have this, at least.”

Lance has his eyes closed, but he can feel Veronica’s “oh please” look. “And school used to kick your ass for ten months,” she bumps her knee into Lance’s hip, “What happened over there?”

Lance shrugs as best he can while laying down. “I don’t know, Nika, I just don’t feel like doing anything right now.” Lance sighs and runs his fingers through the warm sand. The siblings are quiet for a few moments, soaking in the sun, the sand, and the sounds of children playing.

Lance opens his eyes and glances at Veronica under his sunglasses. He sighs then says, “Nika, did time move different for you after you met Tabitha?”

Veronica’s eyebrows are furrowed when she looks at Lance, “Are you…” she trails off, “Are you in _love,_ Lancito?” 

“I never said anything about, _love_ , Veronica,” Lance rolls his eyes at the old nickname, before turning his head to look away from where Veronica is sitting next to him.

“Okay, but why else would you be asking about me and Tabitha?” Veronica bumps her knee into Lance’s hip again. 

Lance sighs, “I don’t know, Nika.” Lance sighs again, “Maybe,” Veronica gasps, and Lance can hear her grin. “Yeah, okay, I might be a little,” Lance finally admits.

Veronica squeals and Lance groans, but a smile is worming its way onto his face. Because, yeah, try as he might, Lance is still pretty stubbornly in love with Keith.

“Oh, Lancito, I’m so happy for you,” Veronica leans down, giving Lance’s torso probably one of the weirdest hugs he’s ever experienced.

“Nika,” Lance complains, halfheartedly pushing her off as she coos at him and he tries to hide his smile. 

Eventually she straightens, looking down at Lance with a soft smile. “When I fell in love with Tabitha,” Veronica starts, her voice more like a sigh than anything, “Yeah, time changed. Any time I spent away from her felt like time wasted and any time with her felt like a dream I never wanted to end.” Veronica lets out a little laugh, “Still does, if I’m honest.”

Lance finally lets his smile free, “Awe, Nika, that’s super gay.” Veronica laughs and pushes Lance into the sand.

“Yeah, whatever, asshole,” Veronica lays down, pillowing her head on Lance’s arm. They sit in contented silence for a while. Lance feels the smile on his face melt the longer he thinks about Keith. 

Because they tried it already. Keith kissed Lance—or Lance kissed Keith—or something  way back when they smoked together at the beginning of last semester. It was awesome for Lance—that much was obvious—but for Keith it wasn’t something he wanted to continue. And Lance is mature enough to be able to respect Keith’s feelings, but he’s also just one dude. One dude, who just keeps falling more, and more in love with Keith, the more time he spends with him.

All lance wants, is to just _be_ with Keith, and Keith—Keith doesn’t want that.

“We’re not together,” Lance says, out of nowhere, and Veronica strains her head to send a confused look at Lance. “Like, we’re not dating yet, and I don’t really know what to do about that.”

Veronica pushes herself up onto her elbows to stare at Lance, “You could start with dinner.”

Lance stares at Veronica for a few moments, “What if he doesn’t want to go for dinner with me?”

Veronica rolls her eyes, “Anyone who texts you as much as he does, will want to go out for dinner with you.”

Lance feels a blush move up his neck, a pleased sort of smile worming his way onto his face. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Veronica settles back against Lance. 

Lance spends the rest of his summer planning dinner dates. 

* * *

Lance tosses a hacky-sac between his hands absently as he sits slumped in one of Keith’s beanbag chairs. “And my cousin ended up getting his entire eyebrow shaved off because my sister couldn’t stop laughing the entire time. Which, to be fair, he asked her to _notch his eyebrows_.”

Keith snorts, “Kids these days,” he mumbles as he organizes books into his bookshelf.

“‘Kids these days,’ is right,” Lance quips back, watching the line of Keith’s back as he stretches to place a book on the top shelf. Lance clears his throat, and has to look away. “So, you went back to Texas?”

Keith glances over his shoulder, one dark eyebrow raised. “Yeah,” Keith shrugs, “I helped my dad on the farm and, like, fought some lizards or whatever.”

“You fought what?”

“Lizards,” Lance can see the smile Keith is trying to fight off.

Lance hums, “Okay, were these lizards of the tiny variety or were they of the Lizard People disguised as world leaders variety?”

Keith schools his face into a perfect, emotionless mask, “Don’t even joke about that, Lance. They’re coming and when they do, I’ll be ready for it.”

Lance can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. Keith joins him after a moment, letting out a few of the most musical giggles Lance has ever heard before Keith plops himself down in the beanbag chair next to Lance. 

“Nah,” Keith pushes his hair off his face, a flush from the still-too-hot-air high on his cheeks, “My dad’s farm got kind of infested with spiny lizards and while they may look cute, man do they bite.”

“So you basically spent your entire summer lizard wrangling?” Lance laughs.

“Yeah, basically,” Keith laughs right back and _fuck_ did Lance miss this. 

“Me too,” Keith says his voice soft and his eyes softer. Lance realizes he must have said that out loud and he feels a blush blooming across his cheeks. Keith clears his throat, and looks away, a blush colouring the tops of his cheeks as well. 

“I mean—I don’t know—we went from seeing each other every day to nothing,” Keith shrugs helplessly, “And like we didn’t really say goodbye properly, or whatever. And, like sure, we snapped everyday, but, like, snapchatting and seeing each other in person really aren’t the same thing,” Keith is rambling and Lance would be lying if he said he didn’t think this was the cutest thing ever. “What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that I really missed you, too.”

“Oh,” Lance says lamely, a feeling of warmth filling his chest. Lance rubs a hand across his chest, and glances away, “I, um, I feel the same.”

Lance sees Keith’s face brighten and turn more firmly in Lance’s direction. “Okay, awesome,” Keith says this softly, seeming to hype himself up for something. He clears his throat, a smile curling his lips and Lance can’t look away, “And because all I did all summer was wrangle lizards and help my dad herd cows, I had a lot of time to think.”

“Right,” Lance says, because Lance had a lot of time to think over summer as well.

“And, well, I just—” Keith rubs the back of his neck, looking away in a very un-Keith-like motion, “I realized that I really like you Lance. And I know I said that kiss last year was just the weed, but I-I really didn’t want it to be. I wanted you to tell me that it meant something to you. And I also realized that I really…wanna kiss you again.” Keith finishes his rambling, looking at Lance through his bangs. 

And Lance just can’t handle this. His heart has stopped in his chest. The bookshelf that Keith had been filling must have fallen over and crushed Lance’s skull because this has to be some sort of last-wish-vision where Keith tells him he wants him. 

This isn’t actually happening, right?

It can’t actually be happening.

Except, the longer Lance goes without answering, the more Keith’s face drops, his tentative, shy smile, melting off his face into a nervous, and embarrassed frown.

Keith clears his throat, “But, like, I get it if you don’t.”

And Lance can’t make his mouth move because _holy shit_ this is actually happening. Because not even in Lance’s shittiest of dreams does he mess up this bad. So, _fuck,_ this has to be real life and—shit—Keith looks like he’s going to cry a little bit. 

“It’s fine, I guess,” Keith clenches his jaw, and clears his throat, “That you don’t like me back. I get it.” Keith shakes his head and looks away, blinking up at the wall, his jaw clenched in a hard line.

And Lance isn’t sure what jumpstarts him back into action, but all he knows is that he’s launched himself from his beanbag char and into Keith. Their lips clash together in a painful disaster of a kiss; teeth clacking and noses bumping, lips out of alignment and orbits out of synch. Lance pulls back a bit, angling his head better, and situating himself in Keith’s lap, a knee on either side of his hips, before diving back in. 

And, _God_ , Keith’s lips are perfect. They’re a little chapped from the dry, summer air, and his horrible little habit of biting them all the goddamn time. Despite this, Lance can’t help feeling like they’re _perfect;_ pliable and warm under Lance’s own. 

Lance tilts his head, leaning farther into Keith’s warm body, smoothing his hands from the front of Keith’s t-shirt to run through the back of Keith’s hair, Lance’s short nails scratching lightly at Keith’s scalp. Keith lets out a soft moan then and, spurred on by this, Lance deepens the kiss, somehow pulling Keith closer to him. And when Keith passes his tongue along the seam of Lance’s lips, Lance _melts,_ opening his mouth for Keith. All Lance can taste is his own goddamn chapstick, and the mint gum Keith had been chewing on earlier. 

Lance scratches lightly at the back of Keith’s head, fisting his hands in the dark hair, causing Keith to tighten his grip on Lance’s hips, his fingers finding their way under the hem of Lance’s tank top. 

As Keith pulls away he latches onto Lance’s bottom lip, biting it gently and letting it drag away slowly, leaving Lance’s heart beating wildly in his chest, and his breath stuttering out in a helpless sigh. 

They pull away from each other, just far enough to rest their foreheads together, Lance’s long fingers still tangled up in Keith’s hair. Lance feels his heart beating against his chest and while he has half a mind believing he died twenty seconds ago, the other half knows there’s no way his own imagination could come up with a kiss that good. 

Fuck, that kiss definitely kicked the weed-kiss’ ass. 

“So, I guess this means you like me back?” Keith mumbles into the shared air between them.

Lance huffs out a laugh, his eyes sliding closed, and his heart feeling impossibly full. “Yeah,” he breathes, a chuckle warming the words as he brushes his nose against Keith’s, “Yeah, you lizard killing maniac. I like you back.”

“Awesome,” Keith says, his voice breathy and excited, “Cool.”

And it would be a sin for Lance not to kiss him again. 

So he does. 

* * *

Falling in love with Keith Kogane was inevitable. Like the progression of time, or spaghettification at the end of a black hole, or the uncertainty when faced with death. So here Lance is, giving into that inevitability. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter of the fic, I will be posting an epilogue (hopefully) next Monday, so stay tuned for that one :)
> 
> That being said, I do have tumblr [here](https://sunscreams.tumblr.com) (personal) and [here](https://kancend.tumblr.com) (voltron). Prompts are open and I also love to chat, so yanno.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long and that it's so short. There's smut in this chapter tho.

Lance is at the local laundromat, absently folding his laundry while waiting for his last load to finish drying when his phone—barely alive and still fighting at a solid 3% battery—vibrates, screen barely lighting, brightness all the way down, with a text from none other than Keith.

Lance scrambles for his phone, and because this is his fucking life, not only does he manage to swipe his phone onto the floor, but he also manages to swipe it between two dryers. Lance’s heart breaks in that moment because he knows in his heart-of-hearts that the poor thing is definitely dead now. He’ll be lucky if the screen survives. He doubts it will ever be the same again.

Lance just lays there, slumped over the dryer, hand dangling into the crack where his phone fell, completely defeated. That is, until Lance feels more than hears a faint _buzz buzz_ come from Dryer Canyon. Lance’s heart soars. Long live his phone! All is well and good and right with the world! And with Lance’s new found motivation and his admittedly lanky-as-shit arms, Lance manages to grab his phone, and an unsurprising, but honestly disgusting amount of lint. 

Lance opens his phone embarrassingly fast, not even really registering the fact that the screen has cracked in two new lines down the face, only to see that Keith has sent a link and a message:

 **Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_I found some leaked footage of you???_

Wasting no time, Lance clicks on the link. It takes a few agonizing seconds for an ancient version of Vine to open, the thumbnail of the video instantly recognizable. It’s that fucking vine where a girl in a white crop top vapes a huge fucking cloud and then a super stoned dude just says “wow,” with the biggest fucking smile on his face.

Lance snorts, a dumb smile taking up most of his face. Then, in Lance’s struggle to get from Vine opened in Safari, to YouTube, his phone dies. Lance’s heart plummets, because how is he supposed to clap back when his phone is dead. Fuck, Lance totally has his read receipts on too which means that Keith will see that Lance has seen the message and if Lance doesn’t answer soon, Keith will think Lance’s shit at being witty and Lance cannot have that, no siree, no fucking way.

So, with that, Lance shoves his useless ass phone into his back pocket, balls up the rest of his clothes before shoving them into the laundry bag he brought them in. Lance pulls open the dryer with five minutes still on the display, frantically pulling out warm-but-damp clothes and shoving them on top of the others, before dashing back towards campus. It’s only about a five minute walk from the dorm to the laundromat, but with Lance’s current determination, he knows he can get back in three then have his phone alive and clap back sent by the fourth minute. 

And Lance knows exactly what to send back: a twenty-five (25) minute long Michael Rosen compilation video, no caption necessary.

Keith is going to love it. 

As soon as Lance crosses the threshold of his dorm, he’s throwing down his laundry bag and running to his room. His phone is on the charger before Lance’s brain can even comprehend that he’s moved at all and the second the thing finally powers on, Lance is sending Keith the video. 

Lance isn’t sure if Keith watched the whole thing, or if Keith just didn’t look at his phone until now, but about 30 minutes later a text comes through.

 **Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_I like Michael Rosen more than I like you_

 **McLame**  
_rude!!!_

 **McLame**  
_:,,((_

 **Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_Sometimes the truth hurts :)_

 **McLame**  
_:,,,,,,,,,((((((_

Keith doesn’t answer right away so Lance puts down his phone, turning once again to his forgotten laundry. Lance figures, he might as well finish what he started, and so he walks over to his laundry bag, unloading the things he hastily shoved in there and folding them nicely, putting them into his drawers neatly. 

As he does this, Lance’s mind drifts to Keith. They’ve been together for the better part of six months now, and Lance still finds himself trying to quell butterflies in his chest and steady the skip-missing of his heart every time Keith so much as sends a smile his way. Everything from the way Keith’s hair curls around his face, to the way he rolls his eyes, makes Lance feel so full of love. 

Lance’s phone buzzes on his bedside table.

 **Alt-Fashion Dylan Beyda**  
_You’re still coming over tonight right?_

 **McLame**  
_its friday keith_

 **McLame**  
_wouldn’t miss it for the world_

* * *

“So, what’re we watching tonight?” Lance asks as Keith lets him into his dorm room later that night. They’d finished watching “Johto Journeys” and while it would make sense to move onto “Johto League Champions”, Lance is open to new things. Plus, Shiro is over at Allura’s for the night and Lance would be lying if he said he didn’t want his childhood to be sullied by him accidentally being unable to keep it in his pants. 

“I was thinking we could actually watch _Thunderbirds 2086_ again,” Keith closes the door behind Lance, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“ _Thunderbirds_? I thought you hated that show?” Lance raises an eyebrow, as he places bags of takeout on a desk.

“I never said I hated it,” Keith rolls his eyes, a light blush blooming across his cheekbones as he looks away, “I just—it’s around that time when we, like, actually met, and, I don’t know, I was feeling kind of nostalgic so, I guess—”

“Keith,” Lance says, cutting off Keith, “I’d love to watch _Thunderbirds._ ” Lance’s heart melts, filling his entire chest cavity with warmth as Keith’s nervous look melts into something softer—something fonder. 

“Okay,” Keith ducks his head, hiding a small smile, as he moves to the VCR, getting _Thunderbirds 2086_ set up. 

“You know,” Lance draws out the end of the word, a teasing smile taking over his face, as he plops into one of the beanbag chairs seated in front of Keith’s TV, “I never thought you’d be the one doing sappy things like this.”

“This isn’t sappy, this is shitty anime,” Keith says dryly, not turning form the VCR. Lance can hear Keith roll his eyes. 

“This isn’t sappy?” Lance scoffs, “It’s only the shitty anime that brought us together around the anniversary of our first meeting. This is so sappy.”

Keith huffs and turns around to face Lance, “Whatever, let me live.”

Lance feels a smile tug on his lips, “Sure.”

Keith plops down next to Lance as the opening credits to the first episode starts, the takeout containers in his hands. Lance takes his, smiling over his Mongolian udon as Keith digs into his chicken chow mien like a man who hasn’t eaten in three years. 

You know, Lance never thought he would get to a point in his life where Chinese takeout eaten on a dorm room floor while watching shitty 80s anime would be considered utterly romantic, but here he is, completely charmed by the way Keith scarfs down chicken cow mien and talks with his mouth full. 

Keith catches Lance staring, and there has to be a really dumb look on his face because Keith crooks an eyebrow and says, “What?”

Lance just shakes his head, “Nothing,” a ball of warmth is pushing up Lance’s chest filling him up completely. “I just—” Lance starts, the lets out a little chuckle, “I just really like you, Keith.”

Keith’s eyes widen, and he swallows his mouthful of Chinese food. He looks away before a smile cracks his face. “Well frick,” Keith mumbles, “I guess, I really like you too, Lance.”

* * *

It’s much later that night, empty takeout containers piled together and hastily pushed to the side, with Keith slumped against Lance’s side, his hand tracing patterns along the inside of Lance’s knee. They’re both turned to face the TV, but Lance is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than Keith. Lance gives up on the endeavour completely when Keith runs his hand up the length of Lance’s inner thigh, stopping just shy of Lance’s crotch. 

“Cheeky,” Lance manages to say, turning his head to look directly at Keith. 

A smirk curls Keith’s lips as he looks up at Lance through his thick, dark lashes. “You gonna do something about it?” he asks with a coy little shrug that Lance just fucking _loves._

“Ooh,” Lance coos and Keith moves to straddle Lance’s lap, “Very cheeky.” 

Keith runs his fingers through Lance’s hair, mussing it gently on the way to play with the hair at Lance’s nape while Lance runs his palms up Keith’s thighs, feeling the strong muscle move under the denim pants Keith is wearing. Lance’s mouth dries at the look that Keith sends him from above him. 

Keith tilts his head and adjusts in Lance’s lap, Lance’s breath catches at the action and his fingers dig into the flesh of Keith’s thighs. “Still doesn’t look like you’re doing much about it,” Keith says, a wicked smile on his face as he watches Lance. 

Lance tilts his head up, opening his eyes to maintain eye contact with Keith, an equally wicked smile taking Lance’s face, loving this playful side of Keith. “Oh, I’ll do something about it,” Lance promises, and Keith rolls his eyes. Keith ducks down, Lance meeting him halfway, to seal their lips together perfectly and seamlessly. 

Lance won’t ever be able to get used to this; Keith in his lap, kissing him so gently, his smile pressing against Lance’s smile, and Keith’s hands playing with the ends of his hair. Lance will never get over the way Keith drags his hands down from Lance’s nape to rest on his chest just over his heart. He’ll never get over the way Keith runs his tongue over the seam of Lance’s lips. He’ll never get over the way Keith moans into the kiss when Lance lets him in. 

Lance will never get over this. And he never wants to. 

“Lance,” Keith pulls away from the kiss, breathy and flushed, “I can literally feel you thinking too hard.”

“I am not thinking too hard,” Lance rolls his eyes, just as breathy and probably just as flushed.

“If you’re thinking harder than your dick, then you’re thinking too hard,” Keith quips before nipping at Lance’s jaw.

Lance’s eyelashes flutter, “Harder than my dick?” He lets out a muffled moan, “I don’t know about that.”

Keith works his way up to Lance mouth, placing hot, wet kisses as he goes, his hands smoothing down Lance’s front to tug at the bottom of his shirt. “Prove it,” Keith whispers barely a millimetre away from Lance’s lips, the tease so heavy in his voice he can almost taste it.

So, Lance surges forward, sealing their lips together in a heated kiss, pushing Keith back onto the floor. Lance shoves his hands up Keith’s shirt, smoothing up the warm skin, only pausing to tweak at one of Keith’s nipples, causing Keith’s breath to hitch. Lance pulls away from the kiss to throw off his shirt, and Keith lets out a little giggle, pulling his own shirt over his head, before Lance claims his mouth again in another passionate kiss.

Lance mouths his way down Keith’s neck, to his chest, leaving wet, pink marks behind as he goes. With fumbling fingers, Lance somehow manages to get Keith’s pants popped open, his belt tinkling softly with every rock of Keith’s hips into Lance’s hands. And when Lance starts pushing Keith’s pants—and his briefs—down his hips—Keith’s half-hard, flushed cock bobbing free—the softest, most erotic noise escapes Keith.

Lance’s passes his hands up and down Keith’s powerful thighs, his thumbs dipping into the sensitive space between Keith’s leg and groin, dodging the way Keith presses his hips up. 

“Lance, fuck, let’s go,” Keith hisses, one of his hands threading through Lance’s hair, and pushing down. 

Lance huffs out a laugh, teasing his hands up Keith’s thighs again, “You’re so riled up,” he moves down, Keith’s body, hovering over his hard cock, looking up at Keith through his lashes. “I’ve barely even touched you,” Lance breathes, a centimetre away from Keith’s head, before he places a chaste kiss on the tip. Lance pulls away slowly, watching a pearly string of pre-cum connect his lips to Keith’s cock-head, only to break the string by licking it off his lips. 

Keith’s breath hitches, his chest stuttering above him, “Lance, c’mon.” 

Lance lets a smile curls his lips. “Alright,” he mutters, before he licks a hot stripe up Keith’s length, from balls to tip, pausing at the tip to clean off the pre-cum that has slowly accumulated there, as if Keith’s dick were a popsicle melting in the summer sun. 

Lance places a few more sloppy kisses to Keith’s dick before sending him one more sultry look from underneath his eyelashes as he ducks down and swallows Keith completely. Keith groans, fisting his hand in Lance’s hair, while the other gropes around blindly on the flat carpet beside him. 

And Lance must be doing something right because Keith is just so _vocal;_ from little gasps, and minuscule hitches-of-breath, to the long drawn out and gravelly groans pulled from the deepest parts of him. 

Lance bobs his head up and down on Keith’s dick with vigour, sucking when he reaches the tip, one of his hands working the base, and Keith’s balls, as he goes. Lance is positively _living_ for the sounds Keith is making. His voice turning the fire that had been burning in Lance’s belly into a raging inferno.

In a moment of isolated stillness, Keith slides his hand down from the top Lance’s hair, caressing his head and scratching at his scalp gently as Lance slowly works at his cock. Lance’s eyes roll back into his head form the sheer intimacy of the move, a shiver running up his spine and polling low in his belly. Then the moment is gone and Keith’s hand is moving on to grasp tightly at the hair at the nape of Lance’s neck.

With a quick glance to Keith’s flushed face, Lance gets an idea, pulling his mouth off Keith’s dick with a satisfying ‘pop’, before hitching one of Keith’s thighs over his shoulder. Lance leans down and licks his tongue around Keith’s rim, pressing on the muscle, but never breaching. 

“Lance,” Keith moans, digging his fingers into the nape of Lance’s neck, “Fucking, _yes._ ”

And Lance really can’t help the smile he presses against Keith’s asshole. 

Lance laves a few more kisses around the pucker, feeling it clench and relax under his ministrations, Keith’s hand in Lance hair guiding him until, “Fuck, Lance, _more,_ ” Keith moans, pushing Lance’s head deeper into Keith’s ass.

Lance pulls away, his face a mess of saliva and pre-cum, as Keith whines in complaint. Lance licks his lips then wipes his mouth and cheeks with the back of one of his hands, “Always so greedy,” Lance says, unable to help himself from placing a messy kiss to the underside of Keith’s dick.

Keith’s chest heaves as his dick weeps with arousal, and when Keith’s eyes meet Lance’s they’re blazing; bright from lust and twinkling with unshared humour. Lance cocks an eyebrow in question and a smirk breaks onto Keith’s face.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” He’s panting, his face flushed and his purple eyes wild as he gazes at Lance, and wow. Lance has never been more in love with someone in his life. 

After a beat (Lance may-or-may not have had to catch his breath; so fucking turned on) Lance lets a smirk curl over his lips, “Hmm,” Lance hums, reaching into his pocket as he searches for a condom and hopefully a packet of lube, “Let’s see what I’ve got here.”

Lance finds the condom, but no lube and, it’s with a heavy heart that, Lance looks back up at Keith—Keith’s cock hard and bobbing in front of Lance’s face, a thick, juicy thigh resting near Lance’s face—when Lance says, “I think I’m gonna have to take you to bed.”

“Thank god,” Keith says dryly, his chest still bobbing with exertion, “I thought we were gonna fuck on the floor."

“Nah,” Lance says back, teasingly matching Keith’s barb, as he lowers Keith’s thigh and helps him back into a sitting position on Lance lap, “I care about you, babe.”

“Awe,” Keith deadpans, a soft smile curling his lips as his breathing finally calms down, “And here I thought that romance was dead.” Keith pushes a lock of Lance’s hair out of his face, causing Lance’s heart to literally melt, before Keith ducks down for a heart-achingly fond kiss. 

“I love you,” Lance says, gazing into Keith’s perfect purple eyes.

Keith doesn’t say anything for a moment, just smiling fondly at Lance, his eyes twinkling in the light from the forgotten TV. “I love you, too,” Keith says, finally, before he ducks back down, to place possibly the most passionate, love-filled, tender kiss on Lance's lips. A ball of something warm and magnificent blooms in his chest, his smile spilling over and into the kiss. 

“Mm” Keith pulls away from the kiss, “Lance as much as I love you, my dick is very hard and I needed you inside me, like, five minutes ago, so…” Keith trails off, and Lance nods, pulling Keith onto his feet only to push him onto his bed, a second later.

Lance takes a step forward, moving to follow Keith onto the bed when Keith says, “Oh and lose the pants.”

“Bossy,” Lance says, but he’s smiling as he makes quick work of his pants, making sure to grab the condom before he drops his jeans on the floor. Once Lance is hovering over Keith, they meet for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

“Where’s your lube,” Lance says, as Keith pulls away from the kiss to slobber his way down Lance’s neck.

“Why do you assume I have lube?” Keith quips, nipping at the junction between Lance’s jaw and neck, and a thrill rushes up Lance’s spine, ending with his eyelashes fluttering closed and a pleased moan escaping him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses as Keith runs a single finger up Lance’s dick, “Because you’re a healthy young man with an equally young and healthy boyfriend.”

Keith runs his teeth over Lance’s jugular, causing Lance’s breath to catch, and his eyelashes to flutter closed. “Top drawer,” Keith says, his lips catching on Lance’s skin, “Surprised you don’t have any on you.”

“Ha ha,” Lance deadpans, reaching into Keith’s bedside table, groping around blindly until his hand connects with something vaguely lube-shaped. “I think we used it last time, and I just forgot to put another packet in my pocket.”

“Major oversight,” Keith says, licking his lips as Lance pops open the cap. Lance connects his lips with Keith’s as he lubes up a finger (the bottle was lube, thank god) before he presses his finger around Keith’s hole. 

“Lance, enough teasing, let’s go,” Keith breaks the kiss, only to sass him, and Lance isn’t in the least bit surprised. So, with a roll of his eyes and an affectionate kiss to Keith’s lips, Lance slides his finger into Keith. 

Keith sucks in a breath through his nose, his shoulders tensing as he bears down on the digit. Lance rubs soothing circles on Keith’s hip with his thumb as he begins to kiss down Keith’s neck, stopping to bite lightly at Keith’s collarbone. 

“Lance,” Keith sighs as Lance adds another finger, Keith’s hands finding homes on Lance’s shoulders and back, digging into the brown flesh. Lance watches Keith’s face contort in pleasure at he begins to pump and scissor his fingers inside of him, hoping to reach that perfect spot. 

Lance fists Keith’s forgotten cock as he squeezes in another finger, Keith hisses as he throws his head back onto his pillows, his black hair a halo around his head. “Fuck, Lance, c’mon, fuck me,” Keith pants, his eyes clouded again with lust as he moves one of his hands into Lance’s hair.

Lance gives Keith’s cock one last good tug, forcing Keith’s eyes closed again before he pulls away, Keith letting out a disappointed noise as he’s left empty. “Always in such a rush,” Lance says as he rolls the condom onto his forgotten member.

“Someone has to make sure we get anywhere with you going a snail’s pace,” Keith snarks, and Lance lines himself up.

“Okay, snails can be fast. Have you ever seen _Turbo_? That was one fast snail,” Lance says, not moving, holding his dick in his hand, the head just barely brushing Keith’s hole.

“Lance, shut up about snails, and fuck me,” Keith rushes out, pushing Lance’s back with his heels. 

"Ugh, fine," Lance groans, and rolls his eyes dramatically, unable to keep his smile down. Then, finally, Lance pushes into Keith, both of them sighing. Lance takes a moment once seated to catch his breath and to allow Keith to adjust—because _shit_ Keith is fucking _tight_. Tight and hot and wet and sucking Lance in.

“Fuck,” Lane hisses into Keith’s shoulder, one of his hands steadying Keith’s hip, the other bunching bedsheets beside Keith’s head. 

“Fuck,” Keith responds, his thighs like a vice around Lance’s hips, his fingernails leaving little half-moons where they dig into the skin on Lance’s back. 

Both boys gasp when Lance makes his first move, sliding out slowly before snapping his hips in, the harsh smack of flesh a backdrop to their cries. Soon, Lance builds up a rhythm, Keith pushing his hips up to meet in the middle. 

Lance pushes some of Keith’s hair off his sweaty face, tucking it behind one of his ears, leaning in for a kiss in a slow moment of tenderness. Keith disconnects one of his hands from Lance’s back, claiming Lance’s hand instead, his purple eyes swallowing Lance whole. 

Keith’s eyes squeeze shut as he lets out a loud keen, Lance landing a particularly hard thrust to what must have been Keith’s prostate. “Fuck, Lance there, there,” Keith pants out as Lance thrusts in again, and again, and again, their voices rising together. 

“Fuck,” Keith hisses, squeezing Lance’s hand in his own, “I’m close.” 

Lance can feel his belly warming, his orgasm approaching, so he says, “Me too.”

Keith presses up to Lance, locking their lips in a messy kiss, uncoordinated and out of breath. Then, like an elastic being snapped, or a really good sneeze, Lance cums, Keith following a few seconds after.

Lance works them through their aftershocks, kisses quickly losing urgency as they catch their breath. Slowly, as to not make more of a mess, Lance slides out of Keith, tying the condom and tossing it into the trash beside the bed. Lance grabs a handful of tissues as he turns back to Keith to help him wipe the cum and lube off of him.

Once Keith is all cleaned up, they wiggle themselves under the covers, Keith curled up on his side, his head pillowed on Lance’s shoulder. Distantly, Lance realizes that _Thunderbirds 2086_ is still playing, and he honestly can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. 

“What,” Keith says, his eyes drooping as his breathing steadies.

“Nothing,” Lance sighs, a smile stuck to his lips, “ _Thunderbirds_ is still playing.”

Keith snorts, unattractive and pretty gross, but unendingly endearing, “Fucking _Thunderbirds_.”

“Fucking _Thunderbirds_.”

* * *

Inevitabilities start with vending machines, that turn into Friday nights spent watching anime and then love. That’s just the way they are. Inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not totally happy with how this chapter turned out, but I promised this like 4 days ago sooo. 
> 
> That being said, I am so grateful for all the wonderful comments people have been leaving me. Honestly you all are the reason I managed to finish this in a timely matter lol. 
> 
> Anyway, you can catch me on tumblr [here](https://sunscreams.tumblr.com) (personal) or [here](https://klancend.tumblr.com) (voltron). 
> 
> Thank you again :)


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